LET'S PLAY A NEW GAME
by AnnabelleLily3
Summary: Post HLV; Sherlock returns to England and decides to do everything in his power to protect those closest to him from Moriarty. Violence, adult themes, coarse language, drug abuse, sexual interactions.
1. Chapter 1 - Did you miss me?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, ofc :)

LET'S PLAY A NEW GAME

Chapter 1: Did you miss me?

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Sherlock has been exiled for four minutes. But from the moment his plane turned around and headed back for Heathrow, he couldn't stop thinking about Moriarty.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Well, he couldn't stop thinking anyway. Perhaps that's even an understatement. His brain has been like a computer since his birth. Observing, collecting data, analyzing, categorizing and storing information on various subjects. He has put it to a good use, of course, but most of the time he couldn't help but to observe. He didn't have to know that this simple, plain flight attendant had an affair with her married co-worker, or that the pilot wanted to propose to his girlfriend but he was too afraid she'd say no because they'd been together only for two or three months. He could see it on them, he read them like open books. Invaluable data is always stored in that boring room labelled "For later" in his beautiful Mind Palace, the room he would visit while being bored to death and then reanalyze acquired data. If the data was indeed invaluable, he would simply delete it.

Never would he delete the moment Jim Moriarty blew his brains out less than a meter away from him. Never will he forget the crazed look in his eyes, the look that told him he would do anything, _anything,_ to win the game. Because the game was always on and Jim Moriarty won by killing himself and thus trapping Sherlock, forcing him to take his own life and lose the game, disgraced and hated. Or at least that's what Moriarty thought would happen. Or at least that's what Sherlock thought Moriarty had thought would happen.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Sherlock died that day. He died for everyone except a chosen few individuals that helped him. A chosen few individuals he needed. Sherlock would rather jump off the roof of St. Bart's again and die for real than tell Mycroft he needed him. But the extraordinary task he completed, the destruction of Moriarty's criminal empire, would be impossible without Mycroft's help. Or without Molly Hooper. _Molly Hooper_.

_DID YOU MISS ME? DID YOU MISS ME? DID YOU MISS ME?_

Sherlock stepped on English soil for the first time since he was exiled. Strange warmth spread through his chest. One small segment of his mind was overwhelmed with relief and pleasure. The rest of his mind was like a hurricane. He could almost feel his Mind Palace shaking while he attacked the information he had at disposal. His movements were swift, his facial expression unreadable. He strode towards Mycroft Holmes, John and Mary Watson. He felt like the East wind itself.

"Mycroft, take John and Mary to Baker Street and wait for us there. I need your best men to accompany me."

"What the fuck, Sherlock?" John Watson was pale. He was gripping Mary's small hand with enough force that his knuckles turned white, but Mary didn't seem to notice. "He's dead. You saw him. You saw him. He killed himself. In front of you. Is it really him? Wha..."

"John" Sherlock said sharply, "get in the car, I need you both at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson will be out of her mind. I'm calling Lestrade to join you there."

"But where are you going? Sherlock, wait!"

Sherlock has already walked pass them towards one of Mycroft's cars. He turned around and looked at John. He understood his friends needed an explanation. Yes, Moriarty was back, obviously, but John and Mary didn't seem to understand why Sherlock was so fierce.

"John. Mary." He took a step towards them." That message was sent at this particular moment for a reason. He didn't want me to leave the country. But this is Moriarty we're talking about. He will know who helped me the last time I fooled him. And while I don't worry about British Government's safety" he nodded towards Mycroft, "Moriarty will not make the same mistake of overlooking Molly Hooper again. She might be in immediate danger."

Mary paled and brought her free hand to her mouth. John paled even more. Mycroft kept looking at Sherlock knowingly.

Sherlock turned around and got into the black car. Anthea was sitting at the front seat, typing orders at the speed of light. The driver was an experienced MI5 agent. They sped off towards the hospital.

Sherlock's brain was on fire. He calculated 58 possible scenarios. Moriarty could strike any second now. However, on some weird level, he was relieved. The game was on. Jim Moriarty, the world's one and only Consulting Criminal, has made a move. A shocking and completely unexpected move, but Sherlock was there to answer. He already had the best security the British Government could offer on John and Mary, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper. But this time he would take their safety into his own hands. He would not let Moriarty to use his friends, yes, _his friends_, as his pressure point like he did before.

Of course he didn't think Moriarty's criminal network was dead. Sherlock did his best at trying not to leave loose ends, but Moriarty was elaborate. Sherlock expected he would leave some sort of a backup plan in case he tried to fool him.

They were nearing the hospital now. Sherlock decided to pursue Molly Hooper on his own in a matter of nanoseconds. He knew how Moriarty thinks. Molly Hooper was his friend. She has always been there for him and he has always trusted her. She did count, even though Sherlock knew she didn't quite believe it sometimes. And she loved him. He knew that. She wasn't hopelessly in love with him anymore, she didn't turn into a mousy stuttering idiot every time he walked through the door and she didn't desperately hope he would reciprocate her feelings and start a romantic relationship with her. She loved him and wanted to be his friend when nothing more was possible.

If Sherlock was a different man, he might fall in love with her. But he was not. He would never be.

Sentiment is not an advantage. Sentiment is a weakness. Sherlock would not, could not love. He could have friends, people he cared about deeply, but not loved. He could not bear the loss of his friends, but he could not love them.

The closest person he ever came close to loving was John, and that was so different, so right... He was like his brother, like the other part of him, the part he could not truly function without. Best friend. John was his best friend.

Mary was bright, intelligent, observant and brave. She was a perfect match for John and Sherlock was so happy that John had her, even though he would never admit it out loud. Mary was a perfect match for John. And she became his friend. Sherlock connected with her on another level. Her dark past forced her to look at the world as a battlefield with constant undying threats. She was much like himself in that matter, but she had a happy personality that made her company enjoyable. She was his friend.

Mrs Hudson was like a mother to him. He cared for her deeply. She took care of him, cooked for him, brought him tea, looked after him, and let him get away with a variety of acts other simple tenants would be thrown out for. And probably legally pursued.

Lestrade was the one that saved him from drugs. Yes, it was his brother, the British Government, that dragged him out of hid drug dens and threw him into rehab, more than once. But Lestrade was the one who moved him away from drugs with a promise of future. He brought him cases, puzzles, mysteries that would consume his mind and make everyday life more bearable. And threatened to throw him in jail if he ever found drugs on him, of course, but Lestrade looked at Sherlock and saw a brilliant young man destroying his genius in desperate need for clarity. And he realized cases would give him what he needed. And he saved him. And he was his friend.

And Molly. She was definitely his friend.

The thought of losing his friends was frightening. The thought of looking at their dead bodies... For a moment, Sherlock felt physical pain.

Another black car with four agents waited for them in front of the hospital. Sherlock got out of the car and strode towards the main entrance while Anthea stayed in the car, continuing the abuse of her phone. They walked downstairs, towards the morgue. They were in the hallway that led to the morgue when Sherlock tensed. The five agents near him tensed too. The security guard was lying on the floor, dead. A single gunshot wound to the head, right between the eyes. Execution style. He was killed a few minutes ago.

The agents wordlessly grouped and went into two directions, one pair through the hall beside the body and the other pair straight towards the morgue. Sherlock and the last remaining agent followed them.

The silence was deafening. Sherlock could feel his blood pumping. His brain was on fire. 10 possible scenarios. No. 11. Every single one worse than the other. There was no one else around, which wasn't odd. Molly was alone in the morgue, probably finishing an autopsy or starting the paperwork. No interns today. He memorized her schedule entirely.

Mycroft's men couldn't follow her around the morgue. She didn't even know she had protection. She will probably slap him when she finds out. Sherlock almost chuckled. And then he paled. Coldness spread through his chest. She could be dead...

That thought alone ignited something inside him. Something primal. Something that made him want to find Moriarty and kill him. And then kill him again. He wanted to kill him before that, but this was different. Somehow the thought of Molly getting hurt because of him was... overwhelming. She was his friend...

They entered the morgue silently. It was empty. The autopsy table was clean, Molly's instruments neatly tucked away. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then they moved to the lab. And that was when they saw her.

Molly Hooper was lying on her back on the floor in front of her workplace. She was still holding a notebook. Her coffee cup was smashed near her, in a puddle of dark brown liquid.

Something tore through Sherlock's chest. He was hit by a bullet, whipped, beaten up with a metal pipe, cut by a variety of blades and hit by a car more than once. But none of that could compare to the burning feeling that engulfed his chest. It felt as if someone was opening his chest with bare hands, breaking rib by rib, and ripping his heart out. His mind was blank. Everything stopped.

Sherlock Holmes became an addict because he needed clarity. He needed to stop his erratic mind from working at full speed all the time. His mind became blank and peaceful every time he shot himself with heroin. The overwhelming pleasure of serenity...

Sherlock Holmes became an addict because he wanted his brain to stop working even for a second. Now he was looking at her... and his mind didn't work. It simply didn't work. He couldn't think. He could only feel. He felt excruciating pain in every fibre of his being.

He didn't even realize he was on the move. His legs felt as if they were made of lead. He crept towards her, slowly and silently, and fell on his knees in front of her.

Then his mind snapped. _Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. _She was alive! Molly was alive!

He took her hand and felt a pulse. Steady beating of her heart. She was alive. Unimaginably enjoyable warmth spread through him, healing him, bringing life back into his mind. She was alive.

She was breathing steadily. Paler than usual. A lump was slowly forming above her right temporal bone where her head met the tiles when she fell. Sherlock took notice of everything out of the usual. There was a puncture wound right under her left ear and a soft bruise was slowly forming around it. Molly Hooper was attacked and drugged. The attacker was male. Short, but strong. He attacked her from behind. He gripped her right upper arm, steadying it, her head snapped in that direction thus perfectly exposing the left side of her neck. He stuck a needle right under her ear, pulled it out, and then steadied her by grabbing both of her upper arms until she started losing consciousness. He let her go and she fell on her knees first and then on her right side, hitting her head, not hard but a swelling would form. She would also have bruises developing on her right elbow and her knees. And on her upper arms where he grabbed her. Sherlock's breath was ragged, he barely contained his rage. He would find that son of a bitch and he would kill him with his bare hands. Slowly.

This was a message. _What could've happened_. Sherlock put his hands on Molly's cheeks, rubbing small circles and spreading warmth through her skin. And pure electricity through his. _What could've happened_.

"Sir..."

Sherlock had forgotten about the three agents he came into the lab with until one of them spoke. Sherlock looked at them. And then he saw what was on the wall behind them.

Yes, it was unusual for Sherlock to be unobservant. It's a miracle he didn't see it the very moment he stepped foot into the lab. And he was right. This was a message. Moriarty was smart. He knew how to play with Sherlock.

The message was there. The white wall was covered with red paint. Intensive red paint formed four simple words...

DID YOU MISS ME?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Molly still had a few hours before the end of her shift, bus she knew she would have to stay longer. She had to do all the autopsies herself, she didn't have anyone to help her in the lab and all the interns were gone. And the paperwork piled up. With a heavy sigh, she turned around and went to the cafeteria. She was in desperate need of a coffee.

She couldn't help but think that it would be nice to have Sherlock around today. He can be moody, but he would help her in the lab. Moreover, he would most certainly enjoy it. _No_. She warned herself. _You can't be serious, Molly Hooper. You don't need that git to help you around. _She chuckled.

She passed the telly and stopped suddenly. She slowly turned around. Jim Moriarty was looking at her.

"_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"_

No.

No.

He's dead. He killed himself. He's dead.

"_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"_

Molly was frozen. Literally frozen. She couldn't move. How was that possible? She took care of his body. He was lying right beside Sherlock in the morgue that horrible day. His body later disappeared but Molly saw the wound. There was no way of faking it, Jim Moriarty blew his brains out. Even the DNA from remaining blood matched Richard Brook, Moriarty's fake identity. _No fucking way_.

_It's somebody else_. Somebody else was using his image. That was the only possible explanation. Sherlock would immediately take care of it and Jim Moriarty would return to hell. Where he belonged.

_There's no need to worry_. She kept telling herself that. Somebody probably wanted to provoke Sherlock.

Her coffee was brewed and she headed back to her lab. Everybody in the cafeteria was constantly talking about Moriarty's video. _Not Moriarty's video. It was somebody else_. She couldn't wait to go away.

It was slightly chilly in the hall, but a sip of coffee spread warmth through her. She stopped in the morgue to collect her notebook. She enjoyed the silence and was grateful that she was the only one in there. Then she remembered the paperwork that needed to be done and a frown appeared on her face.

It was warmer in the lab. She was walking towards her workplace to collect the sheets of data when someone grabbed her arm. She snapped her head to her right and there was a sharp pain on her neck. She wanted to move, but was held in place. She started to feel light headed and desperately wanted to scream, to turn, to move, to do anything. But her eyelids were so heavy. She couldn't see, couldn't hear. She couldn't think. She fell asleep.

She was so tired. All she wanted to do is to keep on sleeping. But someone kept calling her.

"_Molly"_

_No. Leave me alone. I'm sleeping. _Her bed was harder than usual. She wasn't sleeping on her pillow. Her right side was wet. She could feel a throbbing sensation above her right ear.

"_Molly"_

Someone was cupping her cheeks. The warm feeling was very pleasant. Somewhere in her dreams, Molly started wondering who the hell was in her bed touching her. No. There was something wrong.

"_Molly"_

Her bed was too hard. Sharp pain spread through her head. Her body was tense. She started waking up.

The light was too bright. She opened her eyes, but quickly closed them again. She slowly opened them and saw Sherlock. He was holding one of his hands on her cheek, and the other on her shoulder. She wasn't in her bed, not even in her room. She was in the lab, lying on the floor.

She tried to speak, but she was too tired.

Sherlock gently rubbed his thumb against her cheek.

"Molly. Everything is all right. You are going to be fine. Just don't make any sudden movements. You are going to feel tensed and nauseated. Your head might hurt a bit."

As if on cue, a sharp pang of pain spread through the right side of her head. She closed her eyes. _What the bloody hell is going on?_

Then she remembered. She was attacked.

"Sher..." She tried to speak, but felt too drowsy.

"Don't speak yet, Molly."

Sherlock didn't move his hand from her cheek. She looked into those beautiful blue eyes and saw just how shaken he was. He was kneeling in the middle of her coffee, dark liquid soaking his designer trousers, but he didn't seem to care.

He snapped out of it when doctors and nurses came over. He composed himself and seemed to be in control of his emotions. _Emotions_. _If I said that out loud, he's probably drug me back to sleep_. But he stayed with her.

The lump on her head was painful, but harmless. She didn't hit her head hard, there were no concussions. She was a bit bruised and nauseated. Someone drugged her with some sort of benzodiazepine hypnotic drug. She's been out for less than an hour. It was a carefully calculated dose and was meant to knock her out, but for a short while. It didn't make any sense. Sherlock stood in the room all the time. Her doctor wanted to kick him out during physical exam, but she told him it was ok. She knew he was in his Mind Palace, carefully analyzing data. The sooner he realized what the hell was going on, the sooner she would know why she was attacked.

Molly was more confused by the circumstances of the attack than the attack itself. Why was she drugged in the middle of her lab? And moreover, why was she drugged in the middle of her lab, left there unharmed, and woke up to Sherlock Holmes less than an hour later? Why was he there? What the hell was going on?

They wanted to keep her overnight, but Molly wanted to leave. She already felt better, the effect of drugs were almost completely over. She was still a bit nauseated and light-headed, but she wanted to go away from St. Bart's as soon as possible. She signed her release papers and walk towards Sherlock. He was staring at the opposite wall, expressionless. Molly lightly touched his upper arm. He snapped out of his Mind Palace, a bit surprised she was there.

"Sherlock. I want to go home."

For a moment he just looked at her. Then something in his eyes shifted. The Mask, as Molly called his determined expression that was so specific for Sherlock on a case, ready to conquer the world, was on.

"Molly. Anthea will take you to Baker Street. I will follow shortly."

That took Molly by surprise. "Why Baker Street? I'm going home."

"No. You're going to Baker Street. John, Mary and Lestrade are already there. They know what happened."

He looked really determined and Molly knew there was no point in disagreeing. He'd probably stash her in a car and send her to Baker Street anyway. "Okay." She said. "Where are you going?"

"I have to finish here first. You haven't been told yet, I see. A security guard was killed right in front of the morgue."

Molly's hands flew towards her mouth. "Frank! Oh god! He was there when I returned from the cafeteria. Oh no..." Her eyes filled with tears. Everything was making even less sense now. "Sherlock... Why... Why would someone k-kill F-Frank and then j-just drug me? W-Why..." Tears spilled over her cheeks.

Sherlock looked her in the eyes. His gaze was burning her. There was something in his eyes that scared her. "I have a few theories." He whispered.

Once again, he looked as if he was battling something inside himself. Molly saw a strange mixture of pain, worry and relief in his eyes and she was grateful for it. He cared for her, he rarely showed it, but she did count. He cared for her as a friend. She smiled through her tears. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He didn't ask why she was thanking him. He turned around and headed towards the door. Then he stopped and slightly turned his head in her direction, his back still turned towards her. "Molly, I... I'm glad you're alright." And he walked away.

She barely walked through the door at 221B when Mrs Hudson and Mary almost crushed her.

"Molly, oh thank god, you're alive"  
>"We were so worried"<p>

"Girls! Hey! You're suffocating her!" John yelled. They let her go and it was John's turn to crush her with a hug. She didn't even notice Lestrade before she was pulled into another bone-crushing hug.

"I'm hardly a girl anymore John." Mrs Hudson said. "But you're right. Oh Molly, dear, you just sit down and I'll get you a cuppa." She hugged her once more and headed towards the kitchen.

Mary took her to the couch and sat down with her. She was so big, Molly thought it would be a monumental accomplishment if she ever managed to sit up.

"How's the baby Mary? I haven't seen you in a while..."

"Oh, it's perfect, everything's perfect, but you, Molly? How are you? Sherlock called John, he told us what happened..."

"I'm fine, Mary. I really am. A bit light-headed, but I'll be fine." Molly answered. "Nothing a cup of tea couldn't help. Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson." She smiled at the older lady who just brought her a cup. Mrs Hudson squeezed her shoulder and sat beside her. Molly knew they would want to know everything so she prepared herself for retelling the story the way she remembered it. But before she even had a chance to say something, Mycroft Holmes emerged from the other side of the room. He was waving his umbrella with one hand.

"Dr Hooper." He nodded in her direction. She nodded back.

"Molly, what the hell happened?" John was the first to ask. She told them everything she remembered. How she was attacked and later awakened by Sherlock in the lab. They looked at her with shocked and worried expressions. Only Mycroft's face was unreadable.

When she finished retelling the story, everybody remained silent for a couple of moments. Then John sighed. "Well. I've expected something to happen from the moment Sherlock sped off from the airport. To be honest, he seemed more bothered by Moriarty's video than his exile." He snorted. "I'm just glad you're alive considering the fact that a security guard was killed..." He stopped talking when he saw both Mary's and Molly's expressions. "Oh, I didn't mean to say you could end up dead, it's just..."

"What did you say? Sherlock's exile? What are you talking about?" Molly looked very confused.

Everybody in the room, except Mycroft, looked at her in utter disbelief. John blinked a few times. "What do you mean Molly?" He asked slowly. "You... you didn't know?"

"Know what? What is going on?"

"Well, I-I... umm... Sherlock... "John stammered.

"Sherlock Holmes was exiled from the United Kingdom. It was his punishment for killing Charles Augustus Magnussen in cold blood. He could not be put into any prison without causing a riot so he was sent by MI6 on an undercover mission to Eastern Europe." Mycroft spoke while looking through the window.

It was so silent, Molly could hear her heart beating. She was so shocked, she couldn't even think. Sherlock killed somebody? In cold blood? What?

Mary and Mrs Hudson were staring at her. Lestrade was staring at his feet. John's mouth opened, but he didn't speak for a few more seconds. "You... You didn't know?"

Molly's eyes were wide opened when she turned her head to meet his.

John sighed heavily. Mary looked away, brought a hand to her forehead and started to rub it gently. She looked really uncomfortable. Lestrade was still observing his own shoes intensely.

"W-what..." Molly swallowed hard. "What are you talking about?" Her voice was shaky.

John swallowed. "You... you didn't know. He didn't tell you." He brought a hand over his eyes for a second and sighed heavily. Then he met Mycroft's gaze and nodded. Mycroft was looking at him for a while before he nodded back. John looked at Molly.

"Well, you... you know...umm" he swallowed. "Umm... Sherlock started investigating Magnussen a while ago, before he was shot. I mean, he was shot because of it. It... It started right after our wedding." He looked at Mary, but she didn't meet his gaze. John slowly continued. "He started that...thing he had with Janine, you saw the papers..." John sounded very uncomfortable. "Well, yeah, he... He started it because she was Magnussen's secretary and he, well, he used her to break into his office. That's where he got..." John sighed. "That's where..."

"That's where I shot him." Mary said silently.

Mrs Hudson shrieked and brought her hands to her mouth. Lestrade gasped and looked at her, desperately trying to say something, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Molly felt like she was having a heart-attack. What was Mary saying? She shot Sherlock?

John closed his eyes, intertwined his fingers and swallowed hard. "Yes, I know the three of you didn't know that, but it's true. Mary shot Sherlock and that's why he couldn't identify his shooter." He looked at Lestrade.

"Mrs Watson will not be legally pursued because of her actions that day." Mycroft spoke. "But I believe it would be common courtesy to allow Mrs Watson to explain the situation on her own."

Mary slowly looked up to him. "Thank you."

She shifted in her seat. She noticed how Molly unconsciously moved away from her. She placed her hands on her belly, fixed her gaze upon her fingers and took a moment to compose herself. Then she started talking silently without removing her eyes from her hands.

"My real name is not Mary Morstan. I took that identity a while ago. Before that I was employed as an intelligence agent. I cannot and will not tell you the details of my past life. I've done some terrible things that needed to be done, but were terrible nevertheless. One day I woke up with so much blood on my hands that all I wanted was to be somebody else. So I walked away from that life and became somebody else. I have no family. I met all my friends as Mary Morstan. I met John as Mary and he was, no, he IS the best thing that ever happened to me." She looked up smiled at him and he smiled back. "After our wedding I couldn't believe how happy I was. I had a husband whom I loved more than life itself. And Sherlock informed us we would soon become parents." She chuckled. "I had a new, perfect life and I decided to forget once and for all everything that happened in the past."

She sighed. "But life always surprises you when you least expect it. My past has caught up with me. There was one man standing between myself and freedom. His name was Charles Augustus Magnussen." She spat out his name. "He started blackmailing me. But it was a hopeless situation because I didn't have anything to give in return. He simply told me he had information that could destroy me and that he might give it to the authorities. Or worse. There are people who would kill me if they knew who I am. The woman I was before becoming Mary Morstan is known to be dead. Now we know he was blackmailing me to get to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock would do anything for John..."

"And he knew I would do anything for Sherlock." Mycroft said softly. That sentence shocked everyone almost as much as Mary's confession. "Yes. Magnussen had information on everybody of any importance in the UK. He was blackmailing half of the Parliament and the Prime Minister. But he could not get to me. I was important to him even though I hold only a minor position at the British Government. And he knew he could get to me through Sherlock. You see, he believes every person had a pressure point. My pressure point is Sherlock. Sherlock's pressure point is John Watson. John's pressure point is his wife. An elaborate game that ended catastrophically."

"But what the fuck does that have to do anything with you shooting Sherlock?" Molly raised her voice. She was overwhelmed. She felt like her chest was going to explode.

Lestrade looked like he would be yelling too if he managed to find his voice. Poor Mrs Hudson just sat there, tears spilling over her cheeks.

"Wait, Molly. You haven't heard the whole story. Sherlock knew Magnussen kept his dirty secrets at Appledore, his mansion. He had vaults filled with files, or at least that's what we thought... We broke into his office to acquire additional information when..."

"John, please." Mary said. Everybody was silent. Mycroft returned to his previous position near the window.

"That night I broke into his office too. Janine was my friend, she still is. I swear I didn't know she was Magnussen's secretary when I befriended her. I didn't know who he was at the time either. I broke into his office. I knocked her out. She doesn't know it was me. I killed the guards. And faced him. Magnussen. My one last kill. I had to kill him. It was the only solution. I do not fear death, but I am not alone anymore. I have a baby growing inside of me. My child. I had to think about my baby girl. If Magnussen revealed my true identity, her life would be in danger. And I would not let anyone hurt her, even if it meant doing what I swore I would never do again. I had to kill him. That's when Sherlock came. He was shocked to see me. He never expected that. It is hard to deduce someone like me, someone who spent all of her life lying. I had to incapacitate him so I... So I shot him." A lone tear spilled over her cheek. "I could have easily killed him, but I didn't want to. I love Sherlock. And I didn't want him to die. I couldn't kill Magnussen because I knew John was in the building and he would become the prime suspect for murder. So I knocked him out. I called an ambulance and disappeared. I cannot express how relieved I was when John told me Sherlock survived. I didn't shoot to kill, but I couldn't be sure he wasn't going to die from internal bleeding. But he survived."

She couldn't contain her tears anymore. John walked over and knelt in front of her. He held her hands in his and continued.

"Sherlock escaped from the hospital a few days later and told me Mary shot him. I couldn't..." He swallowed. "I couldn't believe it, but Sherlock told me she also saved him. That she had no choice. We faced Mary and she told us everything. Things were a bit... rough for a few months, but we worked it out." He looked at her and smiled. Mary smiled through her tears.

"Until Christmas." John sighed. "Sherlock and Wiggins drugged everybody except me and themselves. Sherlock took Mycroft's computer and we went to Appledore. He wanted to use it to play Magnussen, offering it in exchange for one look at Appledore vaults. Mycroft's laptop can be tracked down and Magnussen would be caught in possession of it, and because Mycroft is the British Government," Mycroft snorted, "and his laptop contains a variety of top-secret documents, that would give agents the right to search the vaults. Magnussen would be done."

"But Sherlock was wrong. Sherlock was very wrong. There were no vaults. Magnussen had some sort of a Mind Palace of his own. We knew what that meant. There was nothing we could do. So Sherlock killed him and told me to give Mary his love. That she was safe. That git gave away everything to save my family." John was crying heavily.

Mrs Hudson was crying too. Molly felt tears on her cheeks. What Sherlock did was unbelievable. He killed a man to save his friends. He always claimed to be a sociopath, but what he did that day proved he could love. He would never admit it, but they all knew it. Sherlock Holmes loved his friends.

Molly moved closer and hugged Mary. That made Mary cry even more. She hugged her back and sobbed in her shoulder.

Mycroft turned around and faced them. "It was decided Sherlock would be exiled from the United Kingdom. He would undertake an assignment he was offered before, but was advised to refuse it. In fact, I asked him not to take it during Christmas lunch at our parents' house. The... consequences would be... severe. "

Everybody looked at him. Molly realized she wasn't the only one confused.

"Why?" Lestrade finally found his voice. "I was under the impression that he would be pardoned and free to return to London after the assignment was over."

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock would not return to London."

Molly paled. "W-Why?"

A rich baritone came from the door. "Because I would have been dead in six months."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Security cameras around the morgue were disabled for 8 minutes. The intruder was fast and effective. He entered through a window in women's' locker-room and waited there. He knew Molly was in the cafeteria. As soon as she returned, he exited the morgue and killed the security guard, single gunshot from close proximity. He used a silencer. Then he returned to the morgue, entered the lab and incapacitated Molly. Sherlock was standing in the lab and looking at the mocking message he left. _Did you miss me? _The intruder brought the red paint with him, it took him less than a minute to leave the message and exit the same way he entered. Unnoticed.

_Did you miss me? _

Everything made sense now. The video was posted at that particular moment to distract everyone as well as to attract Sherlock's attention. There was no doubt Moriarty knew exactly where Sherlock was when the video was broadcasted. He was playing with him. He knew Sherlock would go to Bart's and the attack took place only two minutes before his arrival. He was mocking him.

_Moriarty..._

There were two possible theories about Moriarty's return. Only two. Sherlock frowned as he tried to decide which one he liked less.

Sherlock turned around paced towards the exit. One of Mycroft's cars was still there, waiting for him. He sat on the back seat and they drove away. A while later they arrived to Baker Street. He got out of the car and immediately noticed four Mycroft's men guarding 221B. They were subtle, blended into their surroundings, but Sherlock took notice of them almost instantly. He saw Mycroft watching him through the window. He slowly opened the door and heard their voices. They were in his flat. Mary was crying. John started explaining what happened on Christmas. He slowly paced up the stairway, listening to his best friend. John was crying too. He could feel overwhelming gratitude in each word of his last sentence. He could see them now, but was in the dark. Mrs Hudson was crying loudly. Molly's cheeks were wet with tears. She shifted closer to Mary and hugged her. Sherlock expected that, but she still amazed him. She had such a good, gentle heart. She was now hugging a woman who undoubtedly admitted to shooting her friend just a while before.

Mycroft spoke. He promised Sherlock they would never know. But Sherlock wasn't angry. He wasn't even annoyed with his older brother. He acknowledged his presence by saying something that hurt all of them.

John's eyes went wide with shock and he abruptly stood up. His mouth parted in a combination of a sharp sigh and choked moan but he remained speechless. Mary paled and brought her hands to her mouth. Mrs Hudson let out a sob. Lestrade looked as if someone kicked him in the gut.

Sherlock didn't even try to stop John's fist from breaking his nose. He slowly lifted his head and looked back at John. He could taste his own blood on his lips. The pain was too sharp, but Sherlock didn't even wince. "You bloody son of a bitch! You fuck... You..." John hit him again, right across his left cheekbone. Lestrade suddenly gasped and awakened from a state of trance. He grabbed John and pulled him away from Sherlock. Nobody else moved. Sherlock felt like he was burning under their collective gaze. He closed his eyes and welcomed the cleansing sensation of pain that was now spreading through his entire head.

They were all looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and pain. No one noticed Molly. She slowly stood up. Mrs Hudson was holding her head in her hands behind her. She, like everybody else, nearly jumped when Molly spoke. Better to say, when Molly shouted.

"So you knew you would most likely die and you didn't think your friends deserved to know that?" Her voice was filled with rage and pain. Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes and looked at her. He saw, he felt just how hurt she was. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes couldn't maintain eye contact with someone. He shifted his gaze to the floor.

Molly walked around the small table and stood directly in front of him. He still couldn't look her in the eyes. "Sherlock... You killed a man. You were being exiled. You were going away. Probably forever. And you... Y-you didn't even bother to say a fucking word to me..." Her voice was trembling, but not with rage anymore. "After... After everything we've been through... After everything... I-I just thought I was your friend. I thought you... cared for me. But I was wrong. I was so wrong. You are a fucking bastard." Tears spilled over her cheeks. She knew everyone was watching her in awe. Well, everyone except Sherlock... Mousy Molly Hooper finally spoke up to Sherlock. But it hardly mattered anymore. Molly knew it was over. It was all over. _How fucking stupid was I..._

Molly forgot that she was attacked only hours ago. She forgot about Moriarty. It really didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter because now she knew for sure what should have been obvious to her before. She did not count. He did not care. He played her and used her. He made her think she counted only to use her when he had no one else to go to. Molly's heart was racing. She was breathing heavily.

Sherlock looked her in the eyes, shocked. There was something else in his eyes, he looked hurt. "Molly..." he spoke barely above whisper.

She realized she said out loud what she believed were only thoughts, finally organizing in her head, making her see things clearly. She knew Sherlock would try to manipulate her again naming a perfectly reasonable explanation she would probably believe. She didn't want to hear it. "Stop it. Just... stop it."

She took a step back and suddenly felt light-headed. She closed her eyes only to realize she couldn't open them anymore. She felt somebody's arms around her shoulders and the small of her back before her body touched the floor. A few warm drops landed on her cheek and she fell asleep.

Molly Hooper fainted for the second time in few hours. Her body was weak, still affected by the remaining drugs in her system. The amount of stress that followed the attack exhausted her.

Sherlock caught her before she hit the floor. Without a second thought, he swept her off her feet and held her in his arms. A quick scan of her small form and he knew she collapsed out of exhaustion and was not in immediate danger. He shifted her a bit and then walked straight towards his bedroom. He gently placed her on his bed and covered her with a blanket.

John was at his side as soon as he headed towards the bedroom. He studied Molly's unconscious form and checked her vitals. She was not in danger. It would be best to let her sleep. Then he turned around and brought a towel from the bathroom. He gently cleaned Sherlock's blood from her face. He looked at his friend in wonder. Sherlock was gently removing Molly's shoes, not aware of blood still dripping from his nose. It was definitely broken. John felt a sudden pang of guilt, but immediately shushed himself. _The git deserved it._ He closely studied his friend. He might not be the world's only Consulting Detective, but living and working with Sherlock Holmes left a trace on his observational skills. Sherlock wasn't as cool and composed as usual. His eyes were exposing the great battle of Mr Holmes-the-sociopath-who-doesn't-do-sentiment vs. overwhelming, shattering emotion that was currently taking place in his mind. _A bit windy in your Mind Palace, eh, Mr Holmes? _John frowned. Sherlock was feeling guilty. He deliberately hurt Molly more than ever before and he knew it. And Molly's wrong deduction obviously hurt him. John felt so sorry for Molly. Mostly because he knew she was wrong. She did mean something to Sherlock. What exactly, John didn't know, but it was certainly intense enough to make his friend feel so much at once.

Sherlock wasn't good with sentiment. John realized long ago that Sherlock wasn't an emotionless stone majority of people thought he was. Sherlock Holmes could feel, did feel, but, as he did everything else, he felt with such ferocity that somewhere along he simply decided to stop. So he stopped. And the rest of the world was convinced Sherlock could not feel. But John and a very few others knew he was battling himself not to show that he indeed could.

Sherlock lifted his eyes and met John's. John was watching him for a few moments before nodding his head slightly towards the door. Sherlock got up from the edge of his bed and followed him back to the living-room.

Mary, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were exactly where they had left them, shocked by the preceding events. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. They were shocked with Sherlock's reaction most of all. Lestrade would've jumped when Molly fainted, but he remained still when he saw Sherlock holding her. He had eyes only for her. Lestrade has never thought Sherlock could be so gentle and... Loving? He blinked for a couple of times, that was Sherlock Holmes for god's sake.

Mary was watching Sherlock with a soft expression.

Sherlock abruptly stood, took them all in and headed towards his chair. He sat, stapled his fingers in front of his face and closed his eyes. Tips of his fingers made contact with the tip of his nose and he gasped. Pain hit him at once with full force. He noticed blood all over his shirt. He lightly pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned. Yes, it was broken. John was suddenly crouched in front of him, examining his face.

"Sherlock." He spoke quietly. "We should take you to A&E. Your nose is broken and I won't be satisfied until I see some scans..."

Sherlock raised a palm of his hand towards John to stop him from further talking.

"Fix it here."

"What? Sherlock. Your nose is fucking broken, I can't..."

"I am aware it's broken, John. After all, it is attached to my face."

John realized there was no point in arguing. He fetched a medical kit from his old room and started fixing the damage he made. He did the best he could given the circumstances. Sherlock would have to go to St. Bart's nonetheless, but anything would work for now.

Sherlock didn't even wince while John was working on his nose. The pain was excruciating, but he detached himself from it. Body was only a transport. He would not have survived his stay in Serbia if he hadn't learnt to detach his mind from his body. There were places in his Mind Palace he created during that particular time. Places he still avoided and feared.

John was finally finished and Sherlock rested his head on the back of the chair.

Mrs Hudson slowly approached him and gave him a light peck on the cheek. She wordlessly left the apartment. Lestrade exchanged a few words with John and Mary and left too. Mary got up from the sofa and slowly padded towards John's old chair. She sat down and looked at him. John crouched by her side and put her hand in his. He shifted his gaze on Sherlock.

"Sherlock... why?"

Sherlock knew what John was asking. He slowly brought his fingers to the side of his forehead and gently rubbed it. "Because, John, if I told you, you would never let me go. Mrs Watson would probably shoot me again to keep me from going. Just... leave it..."

"How can you expect of me to act like nothing has happened? In case you forgot, Sherlock, I've already buried you once. I don't think I could stand doing it again." His voice was trembling.

Mary squeezed John's shoulder and he looked her in the eyes. There he saw that she wanted him to stop talking about that. And John realized...

"Molly."

Sherlock didn't react.

"Molly, Sherlock. What are we going to do about Molly? She's sleeping in your bed at the moment, but I don't think she'll want to stay there when she wakes up." He sighed. "Actually, I think she'll want to go as far away from you as possible..." He added softly.

Sherlock glanced at them. "_We_ are not going to do anything about Molly, John. You and your pregnant wife are going home. I can manage alone from here on."

"Are you sure you can?" Mary asked silently. "Sherlock... She's hurt. A lot. Can't you see? She thinks you don't care for her the slightest. That you only make her feel special when you need something from her. And you did that in the past. But now..."

"I can see it, Mary." Sherlock cut her off. He sighed. " I can see it, but I... You know I care for her. As a friend, of course. I just can't..."

Mary knew what he wanted to say. "She doesn't want anything more from you. You know how she feels about you. But she accepted that you're not capable of giving her more than friendship." She smiled. "I mean, we both know that you _are_ indeed capable, Sherlock Holmes, but you don't want to."

Sherlock frowned. "What are you trying to..."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. Deduce yourself for a change. You care about her more than you're willing to admit." Mary was smiling now.

A flight frown appeared on John's forehead. His eyes widened as every piece of information clicked in its place. He smiled widely. "You love her, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt like John hit him again. Actually, he would prefer another bone being crushed by John's fist over this. "Don't be absurd." He said silently, his voice barely above whisper. He didn't have the strength to meet their eyes. He was afraid what they would see in his. John and Mary were smiling at him softly. Then John got up, squeezed his shoulder and turned around. Mary pecked him on a cheek and followed John towards the door and out of the flat.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his favourite chair, his Mind Palace burning.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Molly felt his hands around her. She wanted to push him away and storm out of his apartment, but she was simply too tired. She gave in. He lifted her up and carried her to his bedroom. How many times has she fantasized about that specific situation? But now all she wanted to do was to get as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible.

Sometime after, Sherlock was sitting in the living room, still thinking about John's words. _"You love her." _Yes, if Sherlock Holmes were a different man, he would probably love her. But he was not. He got up from his chair and went to his bedroom. Molly was lying on her side, in the same position he left her there. She needed to rest. She was so small. He noticed that she tucked her small hands under the side of her head. Sherlock was a sociopath, but he understood the chemistry behind love and friendship. He was spending a lot of time with her and got to know her better. Well, Sherlock had known everything about her from the moment he saw her for the first time. Seven years ago at Bart's lab. Mike introduced her to Sherlock and he immediately knew she was an only child of a single parent, a father, deceased not long ago; top of her class, finished uni one, no, two years earlier; she had a few good friends, was shy, but not stupid like most of the people. She had a cat. They were spending a lot of time together in the lab, Sherlock usually not noticing her, but somehow relying on her. It was something he had never planned to happen, but it did.

The night before "the fall" was the night everything changed. He came to her because he had nowhere else to go, and she was there for him.

_What do you need?_

Most of other people would think before offering that kind of help, before helping someone fake their own death, but not Molly Hooper. She didn't even stop to think for one moment. In that moment, Sherlock realized how much he really relied on her. Over the years, he grew accustomed to her, acknowledging her importance but not showing it until the moment he had no other choice but to tell her the truth.

_You._

Molly has thought ever since that Sherlock simply meant he needed her to help faking his death. But he meant so much more than that. He needed her where she always had been – somewhere around him, silent but present; intelligent, caring and loving. He needed her somewhere close to him, someplace he could feel her presence and support when he needed it.

The night before the fall, Molly Hooper became the voice inside his head.

Quite literally. She had her own room in his Mind Palace – bright and comfortable. Sherlock found himself resting on her floral patterned sofa almost every time he needed a voice of reason. She saved his life two times. When he was shot... She was the one guiding him. Information was already in his head, but Molly's voice and face brought him comfort and strength he needed. He really has relied on her.

But from the moment he saw her lying on the floor in the lab, Molly Hooper has been haunting his Mind Palace. She's been everywhere. Usually she was in her room, getting close to him only when he really needed her, but now... She was right beside him, all the time.

Sherlock suddenly gasped. John's words echoed through his mind. _"You love her."_ His eyes widened. _Is it really possible? _Has Sherlock fallen in love? He looked at Molly. She looked so small and vulnerable, but was so strong and brave. And something in him snapped. _No, I do not love her._ He knew what kind of a man he was and it would never be enough for Molly. She would be happy with him, but he could never give her what she wanted, what she needed. Sherlock a husband? A father? That was never going to happen. He ignored the burning feeling spreading through his chest while he concluded that. _I do not love her. _She was so full of love and understanding; he knew he would destroy her. _I do not love her._

Molly stirred and opened her eyes. She yawned and for a moment it seemed she would fall asleep again. Then she abruptly sat up. She was alarmed by the unknown surroundings. Then she looked at Sherlock and blinked a few timed, fighting back tears. She wanted to be as far away from him as possible and there he was, sitting on the edge of her bed. No, his bed, she was in his room.

"Molly." Sherlock whispered. "How do you feel?" There was a note of concern in his voice.

Molly looked away from him. "I want to go home." Her voice was trembling. "I don't want to see you, Sherlock."

"Molly." He was looking at her intensely. He leaned closer to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Molly wanted to shake him off, but was mesmerized by his eyes.

"What you said earlier...It was... It was wrong."He said awkwardly, his voice full of emotion he could no longer hide, still under the influence of thoughts from just moments ago. "You cannot believe you don't count. After everything you... you just cannot really believe that..."

Molly looked away. She could not look him in the eyes because she knew what he was doing, and she wasn't going to give in. Not this time. Flattery won't help Sherlock Holmes this time.

"I do believe because it is the truth." Her voice was strong. She was absolutely convinced she was right.

"But it is not, Molly... I can't... Molly, I can't express it like other people, but you do count. You are my friend. How the hell am I supposed to prove it to you?"

"You can't. All you ever say to me are lies. Except for your deductions, they are not because they hurt me. Every time you say something nice I know you don't mean it."

She got up and walked towards the door. Sherlock was behind her and grabbed her shoulders before he even knew what he was doing. He turned her around and looked her in the eyes.

"You can't really believe that, Molly..." His voice was a silent whisper. Molly thought she wouldn't hear him if she was standing ten feet away. His eyes were wild.

"You can't really believe that I don't care for you. I... Even I could not act that well..."

Molly's angry gaze burnt him.

"Janine would certainly beg to differ." Her voice was silent and venomous.

Sherlock gasped, his eyes widening. His hands slid of her shoulders and she was free to move. She saw pain in his eyes, but she didn't care. It was just his usual elaborate game.

She turned around and headed towards the door. She took her coat and shoes and, a moment later, she was gone.

Sherlock was still standing where she left him. He was so hurt, he would rather take a bullet again than feel that way. His stomach was twisting. The loathing look in her eyes and disappointment in her voice hit him so hard he thought he was going to vomit.

How could she possibly think she was on the same level as Janine? How could she possibly think he...? But yes. Sherlock asked himself how Molly could think he would use her like that for a case. The truth was he had used her exactly like that for years before their relationship somewhat changed. And while it meant something big for Sherlock, it meant next to nothing to her. He could see it now. Molly has never realized how much Sherlock's perception of their relationship changed the night before the fall. She wanted to believe him, but there was always doubt. He gave her a handful of reasons to doubt him, he could admit that much. Molly hasn't still understood how much she meant to him as a friend. Sherlock mentally smacked himself.

She had the right to think that because he hadn't given her a reason not to. But he was going to change that.

He ran out of his flat. Molly was still standing on the pavement, waiting for a cab. He grabbed her and turned her around.

"Molly, please." His voice was more composed that back in the flat, but still a bit rushed. "Come back. I will explain everything, I swear. You don't understand, you..."

"Sherlock please let go of me." She was angry. "I don't care for your explanations because I know you will lie again. I can't..."

"Molly. Please. I know you don't trust me and I understand why. But please..." He stopped for a moment, his hands still on her shoulders. He moved a little closer. "I need you to see me, Molly. You can always see me." He whispered those last words."I need you to look me in the eyes and really see me."

They were standing there for a few moments, eyes locked. Then Molly slowly nodded. Sherlock let a sigh out he didn't even know he was holding. They headed towards 221B, his one hand still on her shoulder.

While they were outside, Sherlock couldn't help but notice how heavily guarded Baker Street was. _Brother dear... _He had a feeling Mycroft wouldn't let him breathe until this Moriarty thing was over once and for all.

They went back to his flat, Sherlock somewhat more relaxed. Molly didn't know why she was doing it. But when he told her to try and see him, she remembered all those times when she had seen him for real. She has always thought Sherlock cared a lot more than he showed. That thought of hers was finally confirmed that same night when she heard how he sacrificed himself for his friends. She just wasn't convinced he felt anything at all for her. Why else would he leave them, ready to die, without even saying goodbye? Mary, John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were told a lie, but at least they knew he was leaving. Molly, however, wasn't told a word.

They entered the living-room and Sherlock sat in his chair, gesturing towards John's. She sat there, facing him. He stapled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes. _Oh, fucking great... Drag me back here so you can bugger off to The Mind Palace..._

She was somewhat surprised when he spoke.

"Molly... I know why you don't trust me." He spoke softly. "You know I used Janine for a case and all you could think about was how I had been using you for cases most of the time in the past. But it is not the same, Molly, it is definitely not the same. Janine didn't mean a thing to me, while you... You are my friend." He looked her in the eyes.

Molly didn't expect that many words, but was not convinced. "Sherlock, how can I know you really mean that? You shamelessly flattered me to extract favours. You told me I counted when you needed a really big favour because you knew simple flattery wouldn't help you there. You were being nice to me all those times when you had nowhere else to go except my flat. How the hell is that different? The only difference between me and Janine is that I didn't get a fancy diamond ring!" She spat those words with disgust.

Sherlock was baffled. "Molly, I... I meant what I said that night. "He whispered.

"I understand why you cannot trust me completely, but I will try to explain. This fact alone should be enough for you to even consider trusting me. When have you ever known me to try so hard?" His eyes were soft, but determined.

"Before the fall, I had been using you shamelessly. I admit that. But somehow I enjoyed your company. You weren't pushy, annoying or stupid. Aren't." He corrected himself when he saw her raised eyebrow. "When you deduced me that day, I... I was taken aback. I had trained myself so well not to show my emotions and you saw right through me. I realized, that day I realized you were so much more than I'd initially thought. And I don't mean more in general, I mean you meant so much more to me than I thought. You Molly, were there when nobody else was. You were there before John. You were there when nobody else could have been. Always. And you have never doubted me. Not even when everybody else did. I know John had his doubts, for the shortest of time, but he still needed a few moments to accept what he had already known. But you didn't stop for one second before offering me everything. I... I would be dead without you." That last sentence was barely audible. "Mycroft's idea would have never worked. Not even I myself could have planned it all the way you have." He looked her in the eyes.

Molly was humbled. The great Sherlock Holmes himself was admitting to something like that. She was lost for words.

Sherlock continued. "I understand you might think this is all just a part of the game. Convince Molly she means something to you so you can use her again. But it is not. After that day, everything changed. Molly, I have started seeing you as a friend. Right after the fall, I was alone. I had nobody except you. You have always been there. I know you still are. You took me in because you thought I had nowhere else to go. But you should know that is not the truth. I wanted to go to you, I wanted to stay with you. Mycroft could have arranged something for me, but I wanted you. I needed to think clearly and I knew I could only do that while being near you." Sherlock realized that only the moment before he told her. But telling her felt so natural, so right. Molly was shocked to hear that. And she knew he wasn't lying.

"When I came back to the world of living, our friendship grew stronger, you have to admit that." She nodded. "But then you found out I was using again, even though it was just for a case..."

"Oh Sherlock, stop it." Molly snapped. "You can't shoot yourself up with heroin for a case. You are a former addict. You can't..."

"Oh, so you think it was easy for me? I felt terrible. But I could control it. The cravings were horrible, but I've been through it once before and I knew how to beat it. I used only that one time and that's why my mind was still in control over my body. But when you slapped me, that disappointed and hurt look in your eyes almost made me shoot myself up again, right after. If John hadn't dragged me home, I would probably go straight back to that drug den and make myself forget your disappointed face. You were haunting me. I could not bear to lose you because you are the one that has always been there for me."

If that were anybody else, Molly would think that was a declaration of love. But it was Sherlock and Molly felt even more humbled by it.

"Sherlock, I..." She started slowly, but he cut her off.

"Molly, John and I left and days after Mary shot me. She called an ambulance right after and saved my life, but..." He suddenly felt uncomfortable. He opened his heart to Molly, but talking about the moment she saved his life seemed too private. He feared she would find the idea ridiculous.

"You saved me that night, Molly." He whispered.

Molly was confused. "What do you mean, Sherlock? I was nowhere near when..."

"Molly, you were in my Mind Palace. You told me what to do. I knew I had to fall on my back, but it was you who told me that. I knew falling into shock would kill me, but it was you, with an unpleasant interference of my dear brother, who reasoned with me. You told me I would feel incredible pain..." Sherlock looked pained. "I died during surgery. I found myself in the pits of my Mind Palace with Moriarty. I knew I had to go back because of John. At that time, I still didn't know what had motivated Mary. I thought she was a danger. I worked so hard to climb the steps that led me back to life and you were encouraging me. I would be dead without you." The last sentence was spoken barely above whisper.

Molly's eyes were wet with tears, a few of them spilling over her cheeks. The things Sherlock was telling her... they were so beautiful.

"You found out about Janine, like everybody else. But you didn't say a word. I knew I had hurt you, but you haven't complained. Whatever happened between Janine and myself was a lie. A farce. She should have known it. But somehow, it was really easy to play her." He added, looking slightly confused.

"Well, Sherlock, according to some news articles, you kept her well satisfied. It's not a wonder she didn't complain." Molly added teasingly.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Molly." He continued hastily. "That... That was a lie. That never happened. I... I have never slept with her." He shifted his gaze to the floor. For a second Molly thought he was ashamed. "She lied to get the money. And it paid off pretty well. I think she even managed to buy a cottage outside London." His eyes were wide, he still couldn't believe people would pay real money to find out details of his sex life.

Molly chuckled. "I know that, Sherlock. I've known it was a lie from the moment I read the paper. It sounded so... Un-Sherlock." She chuckled. He chuckled as well, but she could see a healthy amount of hurt in his eyes. _He is just a man, after all. And I just hurt his ego._

Sherlock looked her in the eyes. "Do you believe me, Molly?" He asked softly.

Molly closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes, Sherlock, I believe you." She paused for a moment and opened her eyes. "But why, Sherlock? Why didn't you tell me? Everybody else knew."

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"Can't you see Molly? I couldn't look you in the eyes and see how disappointed you would be. I was... I AM a murderer. I killed a man in cold blood." He shifted his gaze to the floor, preparing himself for Molly's inevitable reaction. "John and Mary knew why I did it, but it was not my secret to share; Lestrade was given a brief explenation by my brother and Mrs Hudson would've noticed I went away... But you...I would rather die without saying goodbye than remember your disappointment." He closed his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He felt small hands on his shoulders and opened his eyes. Molly was crouching in front of him, looking at him intensely.

"You couldn't have disappointed me, Sherlock." She whispered. "Now I know you truly are capable of love." She pulled him in a hug. At first Sherlock was stiff, surprised by her sudden action. But almost immediately, he relaxed and hugged her back. He buried his face in her hair and sighed. One part of his brain was shouting (in Mycroft's voice, of course) to back away, to push her away, to distance himself... But it was too late.

_Yes, John_. He thought. _You were absolutely right. I do love her. _He lightly pulled away, still holding her. He locked eyes with her and smiled. _But it doesn't mean I will allow myself to destroy her_.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, fingers stapled under his chin. His eyes were closed. His broken nose was pulsing violently. But the pain was welcome, it helped him to concentrate.

The morning was cold and silent. It was around 5 o'clock. He sighed deeply, cold air pricking his lungs. He turned the heating off hours ago. Sherlock desperately needed to organize his thoughts, to catalogue his findings. But he simply wasn't capable. He couldn't calm down his mind even for a short while. In moments like that, Sherlock used to strap his arm above his elbow, find a vein and thrust a needle in it. He could literally feel his overloaded brain slowing down under the effects of heroin. In present time, a burning sensation spread through every fibre of his being, remembering the sweetness of clarity and peace the drug brought him. A dull pain followed. The craving was overwhelming. But Sherlock simply sighed deeply, letting the cold winter air sting his lungs. _The body is only a transport_. He opened his eyes and got up.

He walked around his chair towards the window, hands in pockets of his trousers. The door to 221B open and a moment later, John was behind him.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! It's freezing in here!" John shuddered. He walked over to the fireplace and started working on the fire. "Why the bloody hell did you turn off the heating?"

John awkwardly built up a fire and sat in his chair. He was rubbing his hands, trying to get some warmth into his frozen digits. He was watching Sherlock friend obviously had a lot on his mind. John was ready to bet that he didn't go to sleep at all. He was still in the same clothes as the day before, blood dried on the front of his shirt. He either wasn't aware of it or simply didn't care.

"Look..." John started cautiously. "I know we were a bit hard on you yesterday... Well, mainly I was." He sighed. "I just want you to know that I am not angry and that I don't blame you. For not telling us, I mean... I... I understand..." His words faded. "Sherlock? Are you listening to me?"

Sherlock didn't move a muscle, his gaze still fixed upon a sight far away from present.

John sighed and rested his head on the back of his old chair. Sherlock could go like this for hours. He was deep in his Mind Palace, organizing thoughts and deductions about Moriarty. John would never admit it out loud, but he was terrified of their current situation. He wasn't a man prone to fear, but he feared Jim Moriarty. The last time he interfered with their lives, Sherlock was forced to die. And John couldn't help but remember how he influenced his friend. When dealing with Moriarty, Sherlock was... Sherlock was mad. It felt like he had finally found someone on his own level. An evil twin. The game, as Sherlock calls it, was truly on only when Moriarty was somehow involved.

John was silently wondering if Magnussen was somehow connected to Moriarty. That thought has crossed his mind a lot of times. But Sherlock didn't say anything of the sort, so John didn't voice his fears either.

Sherlock slowly turned around, finally acknowledging John. John realized he wasn't confused at all, he knew he was there all along. He just didn't want to disturb his train of thought.

Sherlock nodded towards him. He slowly walked in his direction and sat on his own chair. The fire dimly illuminated the living room. John looked at Sherlock and realized he had never seen his friend so tired.

"Sherlock... what are you thinking about?" John asked softly.

Sherlock rested his chin on his stapled fingers. "How is Mary? She didn't sleep well last night."

John chuckled. "You know some people would find offensive that you know how well their wives sleep at night?" Sherlock smiled softly.

"No, seriously, Sherlock. I'm worried about you. You look terrible. What are you thinking about?" John continued.

Sherlock sighed. "Everything, John. I am thinking about everything."

"Moriarty?" John asked.

Sherlock met his gaze. "Yes. And no." He said silently.

John looked confused. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. "There are lots of variables I need to look into, John. But there are only two plausible theories. Only two theories that satisfy me entirely. However, explanations of those theories still do not make a lot of sense. But as I have always said, John, when I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"I don't understand what you're talking about, Sherlock." John sighed. "The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced it's somebody using Moriarty's image to scare the shit out of us all..."

Sherlock smiled bitterly. "Oh no, John. It is definitely James Moriarty."

"But..." John brought a hand over his eyes and inhaled slowly. "Sherlock. You said Moriarty shot himself in front of your eyes. You are Sherlock bloody Holmes. He couldn't have possibly fooled you. Now you're saying it's him... I... I'm just so bloody confused!"

Sherlock remained silent. John sighed nervously. He knew Sherlock wouldn't voice his thoughts until positively sure. John just couldn't wait.

The fire was flickering, bringing light and warmth to the flat. The winter sun started showing above the horizon, but immediately hiding behind heavy dense clouds that were bringing another round of snow. They were sitting like that for a long while, each of them deep in their own thoughts. John snapped out of it when he heard the door opening, probably Mrs Hudson bringing fresh, steaming tea. But soon he realized what he had heard were the bedroom door. Sherlock's bedroom door. John's eyes slowly widened while someone was lightly walking towards them. A very unpleasant feeling of _déjà vu _consumed him entirely. _Holy fucking shit Sherlock, for the love of all that is holy... _

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Molly Hooper. _Wait._ His eyes widened even more. He felt paralysed. _Molly Hooper. Molly bloody Hooper wearing Sherlock's old pyjamas and his second best dressing gown. _

She was also a bit taken aback by the sight of John Watson sitting in his old chair at 6 o'clock in the morning, his neck twisted at weird angle, watching her intensely. Sherlock didn't seem to notice either one of them.

"Oh, John..." She said silently. "I was, umm... I was just..." Her cheeks turned crimson because she realized what John was thinking by the shocked look on his face.

John finally found his voice. "M-Molly?"

They were staring at each other intensely, both feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Then they started talking at the same time.

"W-What are you doing here..."  
>"S-Sherlock didn't let me g-go home..."<p>

"Oh for god's sake, both of you." Sherlock said silently, his voice calm. "John, Molly woke up some time after you left, I couldn't let her go home alone in the middle of the night while Moriarty's lurking in the shadows. There is really no reason to compare this particular occurrence to the one regarding your encounter with Janine a few months ago."

"Oh... Oh, no, I didn't..."

"Yes, John. You did." Sherlock answered calmly.

Molly was uncomfortable and shaken. She wanted to run back to Sherlock's room and hide under the blanket. "I... I'll just go back..."

"There is no need for that, Molly. You can stay here with us. Besides, it is warmer in here. I turned off the heating earlier." Sherlock continued, not looking at her.

"Oh... yes. I've noticed." Molly said awkwardly. She lingered a bit, deciding between excusing herself and staying. Sherlock stood up and gestured towards his chair. He walked over to the window and looked outside. Molly had no choice, she slowly walked over to his chair and sat down. She tucked her bare feet under her and tied Sherlock's dressing gown tighter around her.

John couldn't look at her, embarrassed by his wrong deduction. He felt extremely silly. Then he remembered.

"What happened between the two of you last night? You were fighting the last we saw... At least you, Molly, were fighting." He continued softly, a small smile on his lips. "I've never seen this git lost for words before."

Molly looked at the floor. "We, umm... We've worked it out. We talked and I... I realized I wasn't being rational." She finished silently.

Sherlock sighed. "No, Molly. Your thoughts were completely rational, as I have said before. But that is solved now." He stopped for a few moments. "Now we have to solve the problem of your future accommodation and protection. You will most certainly need it."

John and Molly looked at him. He didn't move, his eyes still fixed on the empty street.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" Molly started slowly. "Accommodation?"

Sherlock spoke silently. "Yes, Molly. Your accommodation. You will be... You are in constant danger now." He sighed. "Moriarty had you attacked to warn me. To show me what he could do. What he CAN do." He remained silent for a few moments. Molly and John felt like their blood was turning to ice, despite the warmth that was spreading from the fireplace. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was barely above whisper. "I am not planning on leaving you out of my sight this time. "

John's eyes moved towards Sherlock. His back was turned to them, but John knew how worried his friend was. He could hear it in his voice. To other people, Sherlock Holmes might seem composed and in control of his emotions, even cold, but John could simply feel how overwhelmed Sherlock was. The dam that was holding his emotions in was on the brink of destruction. He slowly lifted the corner of his mouth, satisfied. _Yeah, you bloody git. I was right. You do love her! _ But he would not say a word about his final deduction. He would help his friend to stay composed in front of Molly. Because that's what she needed. A composed, brilliant Sherlock who was in control of everything. In fact, that's what they all needed.

"Yes. I agree with Sherlock." John said silently. Molly looked at him. "I think it would be for the best if you stayed somewhere we can protect you, Molly."

"But..." Molly was shaking her head lightly. "Why? I mean, I have my own flat, I..."

"Molly, don't be absurd. It takes me exactly 27 seconds to pick your lock and I assure you, there are even more capable people who do it professionally." Sherlock countered.

"But, what are you... What are you trying to... to..." Molly was very confused. She couldn't even think of the right question to ask first.

Sherlock turned around and looked her in the eyes. They were staring at each other without a word for a while. John's gaze shifted slowly from one to the other.

Sherlock sighed. "What _I_ am trying to say, Molly, and I do believe John will back me up on this, is that it would be the safest option for you to stay at Baker Street." Sherlock voice was calm, but his breath was a bit rushed.

Molly's mouth fell open. She desperately tried to reason with him, to show him that would be a terrible idea, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Even if she did find a perfect excuse, she probably wouldn't be able to find her voice.

"You will stay at John's old room, of course. Mrs Hudson will have it ready later today. The flat is guarded. Mycroft's men will protect you at Bart's too. You will not be in any immediate danger. We will do our best to assure that." He continued calmly.

Molly finally found her voice. "But, Sherlock! I can't live like that! I can't have men following me wherever I go! It's just not..."

His stern stare stopped her. "Molly, you should be aware Mycroft's men are entirely capable of doing their job. It is not the Scotland Yard."

She looked away. "I... I didn't mean that. I... I just..." She sighed. "I guess there is no point in arguing. I would rather stay in my own apartment, but I agree I would be safer here." She brought a hand to her forehead.

Nobody said a word for a while. Sherlock once again returned to his position by the window. It started snowing outside.

Molly was the first to break the silence.

"Sherlock..."

He didn't look at her.

"Is it really him?" She tried to sound brave, but her voice was full of emotion. Jim Moriarty had a special meaning to her. He used her to get closer to Sherlock. She was disgusted by him, but even more by herself. The great criminal mastermind that cost them all so dearly played her like a toy. Molly shuddered in disgust at the thought of his lips on hers. She would do everything in the realm of possibilities to delete those memories from her mind, but she couldn't. It felt as if they were carved into her cortex.

Sherlock was still standing by the window, his back turned to them. He didn't say a word. His mind was racing. _Two possible theories... _But he concluded it would be for the best not to voice his thoughts before being sure. He sighed and turned around.

"John, you will take Molly to her apartment to pack. I believe Mrs Watson will be eager to join you and hear every detail first hand." John smiled. "I will be expecting the three of you later this afternoon. Now if you will excuse me, I have to tell Mrs Hudson she is to have another tenant." He nodded and slowly walked out of the room.

John and Molly remained in their seats. John put his hands on the armrests and sighed. "Well, I guess I should give you a moment to get ready. I'll call Mary and tell her we'll be on our way to pick her up. And yes, Sherlock was right." He added silently. "She will want every single juicy detail. And you will give it to her. Otherwise I'll have to extract it out of Sherlock, and trust me, I'd rather kill myself right here right now."

Molly chuckled. She got up and went towards Sherlock's bedroom. She put her clothes on and was trying to do something with her hair. After a few moments, she gave up and gathered it in a loose ponytail. John was waiting for her and they went away, Molly mentally preparing herself for Mary's interrogation. She felt a bit uncomfortable about seeing Mary again. She didn't blame her for her actions, but it was still a bit... She did shoot Sherlock after all, even though she did it to incapacitate him, not kill him.

Molly's heart was racing by the time they reached the Watson's house. Mary slowly walked towards the car and got into the back seat. She bit her lip and slowly smiled to Molly. Her smile was apologetic. Molly turned around and smiled back. She brought her hand to Mary's knee and squeezed it lightly. "I hope last night wasn't too stressful for you and Miss Watson."

Mary smiled widely. "No, we are alright. I lost a bit of sleep last night because little Miss Watson was on the move. Her favourite activity seems to be kicking my bladder." Both women laughed. John was silently driving the car and smiling widely. They arrived to Molly's flat. She put the kettle on and starting to prepare some breakfast. With full bellies and steaming cups of tea in their hands, they started to pack. Molly knew Sherlock sent John and Mary with her so she wouldn't feel alone. And she was thankful for that. Because if she were alone, she would start thinking about Moriarty... and the lab. She shuddered.

Mary and John, but mostly Mary, wanted to know everything that went on between her and Sherlock after they left. Molly repeated some parts of the conversation, but some things Sherlock told her felt too private to share. She generally told them how he didn't want to risk their friendship or disappoint her. And she told them she understood why. Mary was smiling softly, but there was something weird in John's eyes... something like knowledge? Or understanding?

Molly asked Mary about her pregnancy and preparations for the baby and the conversation naturally shifted towards those happy topics. Mary was genuinely happy and Molly was glad to see it. While she and John were separated, Mary was very depressed. Molly feared how it would influence her pregnancy. But John and her were together now, in love more than ever before. Molly believed John was still pissed sometimes, but it hardly mattered. He was looking at his wife with a look of pure adoration in his eyes. Molly couldn't help but feel so happy for both of them.

When Molly and John left, Sherlock returned to his flat. Mrs Hudson was absolutely delighted with the news. She immediately stormed off to John's old room with cleaning supplies and a look of determination on her face. Sherlock walked towards his bedroom. His bed was made, but it still bared her presence. A strand of hair on his pillow, a soft lemony scent ... he shook his head and went out. He unbuttoned his blood stained purple shirt and threw it straight to garbage. He undressed and took a shower. The hot water was relaxing his tensed muscles. He pressed his forehead on the tiles. He needed to think. He needed to concentrate. He knew there was no better alternative. Molly had to stay at Baker Street. Something like happiness spread through him, but he dismissed the feeling. He needed to _concentrate. _

The game was more elaborate on Moriarty's side this time. Sherlock just needed to figure out the ground rules. But he had to admit that he didn't have the upper hand. Moriarty was far more... organized. He was mocking him, something he would never do before so openly without strong ground to stand on. This time, he was like a shadow, like a demon lurking from the edge of darkness. Sherlock had a feeling his moves were calculated ages ahead. He also had a strange feeling everything that happened three years ago was a part of a bigger plan too. He abruptly opened his eyes. Yes. That was it. His second theory was starting to look even more and more plausible with every second that passed. On the one hand, it was a perfect explanation. On the other, it was utterly crazy and insane. _Oh yes, the game is on._ The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping... Sherlock was starting to feel like his old self again. He only needed to check some things for sure. If the evidence was still there. But Sherlock hardly needed evidence. He had his mind, his beautiful mind that organized his thoughts perfectly, leading him to the one and only possible explanation, when all facts were considered. He lightly bumped his head across the tiles. Then he remembered he hardly needed another head wound.

He got out of the shower. He dried himself and dressed. Sherlock Holmes was, once again, a man on a mission. His moves were swift. He waltzed into the living room, wrapped himself in his Belstaff and tied his dark blue scarf around his neck. Then he removed it because it too was covered in blood. He sighed heavily.

He was ready to get out of the apartment when he remembered his mobile phone. It was on the mantelpiece. He walked over and took it. He realized he had a message from an unknown number. He opened it while walking towards the door. He stopped. The blood in his veins froze. He couldn't move for a moment. Then he gasped and ran out of his apartment.

The message contained a single photo. Sherlock saw Molly, John and Mary sitting around her kitchen table and laughing. The photo was taken from the hallway. There were no windows in the hallway...

_**AN**: I would like to thank you all for the reviews. It makes me really happy that someone actually likes the ideas forming in my head. And I'm sorry for destroying the purple shirt ;)_  
><em>I had some of the chapters written a few days in advance, that's why I was able to update often. But classes are catching up with me, so the updates might be less frequent in the future. Still, I hope to write as often as I can. Thank you!<em>


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Warning-detailed description of interactions of violent nature

Sherlock called Mycroft and explained what happened while getting into a cab. Mycroft assured him his men would immediately take control of the situation. Sherlock urged the driver to be faster and the driver didn't complain because he saw the crazed look in the passenger's eyes. Sherlock felt like his skin was burning, like his lungs were filled with dense gas that was cutting his oxygen supply short. His breath was ragged. His heart was racing. He was unable to calculate how many theories were plausible, let alone possible. He was just sitting there, in the back of a cab, his mind entertained with the thought of putting his hands around Moriarty's neck and squeezing the life out of him. He would first grab Sherlock's hands, trying to loosen the grip, but it would be unsuccessful. Then he would try kicking Sherlock, but he would be out of Moriarty's reach. Sherlock would have his every move carefully calculated and planned. Moriarty's eyes would widen, blood vessels more and more prominent in them, until the smallest of capillaries would start bursting due to the increased pressure. His face would take a slight shade of blue due to cyanosis, the amount of deoxyhemoglobin in his blood increasing. He would be close to losing consciousness and desperately trying to fight for air, but Sherlock would not let go. He would loosen his grip slightly, but only to prolong Moriarty's agony. If there was anything Jim Moriarty did not deserve, it was a slow and quick death. _Yes, Jim Moriarty. _In some part of his mind, he wondered if he would see the differences when he finally faced him. _Hopefully under similar circumstances_. There had to be some...

He was snapped out of it when the car stopped. It took him a moment to remember what was happening. He left a larger tip than necessary and jumped out of the car. In less than a minute, he was in her apartment. It looked the same as her rooms in his Mind Palace_. Rooms? When did she take custody of the entire wing of the Palace? _The three of them were sitting around her small kitchen table, jumping to their feet when Sherlock entered. Mycroft's men were scattered around the apartment. Sherlock felt almost overwhelming warmth spreading through him when he saw them alive and unharmed. He let out a sigh he didn't realize he had been holding. He closed his eyes.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on?" John's shaky voice pulled Sherlock back to them.

John was obviously shocked. Mary was easing herself on the chair again, her face very pale. Only Molly's expression was unshaken. Sherlock was slightly confused by it. She had a look of determination and annoyance on her face. Her eyes were burning him. She looked... She looked... _She looks like me..._He couldn't take his eyes of her. He suddenly felt the need to kneel in front of her and explain everything. He would probably do something of a sort if she didn't speak with a determined voice.

"Sherlock, what happened? We were packing as you instructed us when these men bursted in through the door and started searching the apartment. They almost gave Mary a heart-attack." Her voice was raised now. "And when John asked them what the fuck was going on, they told us they were not authorized to give away any information!" She looked at the poor agent near her with such ferocity, he literally took a step back. Sherlock's mouth fell wide open, but there were no words coming out. He had never been that attracted to anyone before he saw Molly Hooper pissed out of her mind. She was... She was unbelievable.

He cleared his throat and composed himself. Nobody noticed his reaction because they were all watching Molly in awe. Sherlock nodded towards the agent and they stepped a few feet away. They exchanged a few silent words and then the agents left the apartment. Sherlock turned around and walked back to his previous position. He couldn't make himself look at Molly. He was afraid he would do something stupid. That's why he looked at Mary. He noticed how paler she grew by the minute.

"Mary, are you alright?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I am. I feel well, I really do. I just need a cup of tea..." A small smile appeared on her lips. John immediately put the kettle on.

"Well... I guess you are all in need of an explanation." He started.

"Yes, Sherlock. Some of us are in need of new doors, as well." Molly's angry voice cut him off.

He finally brought himself to look at her. He slowly turned his head and met her eyes. "M-Molly." He stammered. Mycroft's voice snorted in his mind. He cleared his throat. "I assure you that will be taken care of. And I will explain everything."

He took a seat on the opposite side of them. John was now standing behind Mary, his hands rubbing her shoulders comfortingly.

"I got a text message from an unknown number. All it contained was a photo." He took his mobile phone out of his pocket and browsed through his inbox, finding what he sought for. He showed them the photo. Their facial expressions were changing jointly. If the situation were different, Sherlock would find it fascinating. They first looked confused. Then they looked towards the hall where the photograph was taken from. Then the look of pure horror showed on their faces.

"I have informed Mycroft immediately and that is the reason why his agents rapidly secured your apartment. I came as soon as possible." His voice was still and composed, but they could see in his eyes how concerned he was.

"There were only two possible theories. Either there was a camera in your apartment, which there isn't, or there was someone in here."

Molly gasped. "But... But how?"

"I don't know. And I hate not knowing." Sherlock said sternly. "The agent informed me there were no signs of a forced entry. That leaves only the possibility of someone having a key to your apartment in possession, Molly."

She gasped and brought her hands to her mouth. She blinked a few times rapidly. "Do you... Do you think it was... him?"

Sherlock got up from his chair and turned his back to them. He walked slowly towards the hall and took in his surroundings. There was nothing. He left nothing behind. He sighed audibly. He silently examined all of the windows in her apartment, something the agents had done before him, but he needed to double check. He knew the Watsons and Molly were pissed at him for leaving like that, but they wouldn't distract him while he was working. And he was working in vain. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. "Fuck." He muttered. It was a rare opportunity to hear Sherlock Holmes swear.

He walked back to his friends. "I'm sorry. There is nothing. I cannot tell you neither who it was nor how he got in. It only leaves us with the possibility of him having a spare key." His voice was rushed.

"But, Sherlock." John spoke. "Why? I mean, why the hell would someone break in and only take a photo of us? And then send it to you? I mean, what the hell? He could've easily killed us all off..."

"Because he's fucking playing with me John, that's why!" Sherlock yelled. He couldn't contain his frustrations anymore. "He's fucking playing with me! He's holding his cards now, while mine are spread across the table! He knows how much you mean to me and that's why he's constantly showing me what he could do and inevitably will do if I don't stop him first! It's all connected, can't you see?" He looked like a mad man. His curls were simply wild, sticking out in all directions because he kept pulling a hand through his hair. His eyes were wide and filled with a combination of rage and desperation. "Can't you see? It's all connected! It has been connected and I haven't seen it for years! For fucking years! That's why he made me jump! That's why he let me dismantle most of his criminal network! That's why he made me stay when I was ready to go away and die! That's why he attacked you, Molly! That's why he broke into your apartment just to take a fucking photo of you sitting around and drinking tea! He is playing with me because he knows he can!" He slammed his fist across the table while saying those last words. His face was reddish.

His friends were frozen with shock, their mouths hanging open and their eyes wide. John and Mary Watson have never heard Sherlock Holmes swear. John had a lot of experience with his frustrated friend, but never before had he looked so... so mad. John couldn't decide whether Sherlock was more angry with Moriarty or himself. Molly was having a flashback to one of her first encounters with him, when he came to the morgue high on cocaine. She was terrified of him back then. She was equally terrified of him now.

They remained silent for a few minutes while Sherlock was nervously pacing back and forth. A high-pitched noise came from the kettle, reminding them of the long-forgotten tea. To everyone's surprise, Sherlock turned around and proceeded making tea. He put a cup in front of each one of them. They were all too shocked to speak. Sherlock returned to pacing across the adjoined kitchen and living-room.

John shook his head slightly and found his voice. "Sherlock... You...I mean..." He cleared his throat. "Could you possibly explain? I mean, we got a bit lost..." When Sherlock didn't utter a word, John spoke louder. "So, you... you're definitely convinced it's Moriarty?"

Sherlock stopped pacing. He was looking at the wall when he spoke. "Yes."

"But... How can it be?" John sighed. "I know you told me before he shot himself in front of you. That you were positive he was dead. I just don't understand." He sighed. Mary and Molly were watching Sherlock with concerned and scared eyes.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, but he did kill himself."

That confused his friends. "I'm sorry?" John asked.

Sherlock smiled wider. "Yes. Jim Moriarty shot himself on the roof of St. Bart's. He is most definitely dead."

They were looking at him with shocked expressions. Molly started wondering if Sherlock was, indeed, high. It wasn't making any sense.

"Sher... Sherlock." Her voice was silent and shaky. Sherlock looked at her and saw how scared she was. _She is afraid... She is afraid of me! _Sherlock felt like he was being hit by a train over and over again. How else could he explain that sharp pain spreading through every fibre of his being? He was so disappointed with himself. _How can't she see? How can't she see that she should never, NEVER, be afraid of me? That I would never willingly hurt her? _The pain was evident in his eyes.

He decided to compose himself, for all of their sakes. He took a deep breath and calmed down.

"I am sorry for my behaviour. I am not a man of emotion, so I cannot hand properly a lot of it at once. I have confused you and... scared you." He looked at Molly. "And that I deeply regret."

He took a seat. He rested his elbows on the table, stapling his fingers under his chin.

"I have told you some contradicting information during the past two days. But the tuth is, I wasn't sure until this morning. I've had two possible theories in my mind, two theories that would both explain everything that is happening. But when I counted in all the evidence, some of it invisible to you, but completely exposed to me, only one of the theories stood out. And I have calculated in some of the findings from my time away, after the fall..." He stopped for a shortest while. "While dismantling Moriarty's network, I found some evidence I discarded at the time. I was convinced Moriarty's game was too elaborate. The truth is, it didn't have to be as elaborate as I thought. A part of it was plain truth hidden amongst the lies."

He sighed. "The best way to hide the truth is to hide it between two lies. A similar thing can be said about planting lies. Moriarty didn't have to invent Richard Brook because he had existed. In a way. That was a part of his game that has always confused me. While away, I discovered the existence of Richard Brook. He was born as James Moriarty, but legally changed his name at 21. Why would Moriarty change his name that many years ago? And more important, why didn't James Moriarty cease to exist after that? I gave him more credit than he deserved for that because I thought he had been planning years in advance. Not necessarily for an encounter with me, but with someone who would mentally challenge him."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a while. His friends couldn't find their voices. He continued.

"I was shocked when he killed himself. There were 13 possible scenarios once I got on that roof. 13. And neither one of them included Moriarty pulling a gun on himself. He ended his life. Just like that. I was playing at all angles up there, trying to find a liability. But tell me, what could I have done to force him to call off the snipers? It just didn't make any sense."

John sighed. "He did it because he was crazy, Sherlock." His voice was silent.

Sherlock smiled. "No, John. He did it because he was told to do it."

Their eyes widened. "By who? There's someone above him?" John was surprised.

"Oh, yes." Sherlock said sternly. "Not necessarily above. More like beside him. They functioned together, but one was ready to take over if the other could not."

"Who are you talking about? One of his lieutenants? "

"No, John. They are dead. All of them." Sherlock said

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because, John. "Sherlock continued with a sigh. "I have killed every single one of them personally."

His friends gasped. They expected Sherlock had blood on his hands from that time, but none of them ever dared to ask. Sherlock has never talked about his time away, being "dead" and destroying Moriarty's web.

Sherlock had his eyes closed. He didn't want to open them and see their looks of disgust. What he did had to be done, but his friends would probably think of him as of a monster. Well, Mary wouldn't, she used to do the same thing for a living.

He slowly opened his eyes and took them in. John was watching him with a mixture of regret for not being there with him and relief to still have his friend alive a task like that. Mary's eyes were full of warmth and understanding. Molly's had pure terror in them. Sherlock felt that familiar pain in his chest, spreading through the rest of his body.

He shifted his eyes to his intertwined fingers.

"So..." John cleared his throat. "Who is it then?"

Sherlock sighed audibly. "It is James Moriarty."

Their eyes widened and their mouths fell open.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Sherlock?" John sounded angry. "Are you fucking with us? Is this funny to you?"

"No, John. I meant what I said." He opened his eyes and looked at them. He slowly continued. "It was James Moriarty."

John brought a hand over his eyes, obviously forcing himself to calm down and not to break another one of Sherlock's facial bones.

"B-But S-Sherlock." Molly's voice was trembling violently. "I... I don't..."

Sherlock locked eyes with her. "You don't understand, Molly. I am aware of that. I haven't let myself understand the same thing for more than three years. But now I see it all clearly. It is the only possible explanation of all the facts. There were originally two men named James Moriarty. Twin brothers, I presume." His friends gasped loudly. "We dealt in the past with one of them. Now we are dealing with the other."

They were lost for words. Completely speechless. What Sherlock was saying was insane. Impossible. Unbelievable. But Sherlock Holmes was saying it and that meant he could see a connection where they weren't able to. Sherlock Holmes was claiming it to be the truth, so it obviously was.

They couldn't explain it to themselves, but they didn't have to. Sherlock's phone buzzed. He took it from the table and saw the same unknown number. He answered the call and put it on speaker. A familiar voice filled the room. Molly's heart was beating so fast and hard that she was convinced she was going to have a heart attack.

It was undoubtedly Jim Moriarty.

"Hi!" His high-pitched sweet voice made Molly's skin crawl. "Did you miss me? Awww, I know you did. Even though you were slightly confused until dear Sherlock cleared the situation up a bit. I am afraid we haven't met, Sherlock Holmes. I have heard a lot about you. But you haven't connected what you've heard about me to myself. Let us mend the problem."

There was complete silence for a few seconds. Then the voice spoke again. It wasn't sweet anymore. The Irish accent was still prominent, but it froze the blood in their veins. It was filled with pure evil.

"My name is James Moriarty. Better known as Professor Moriarty."

He paused, wanting the effect of his words to take in.

"I will be terminating my surveillance on your friends now. And my little warnings will stop as well. The game, as you call it, Mr Holmes, is on."

The call ended. Neither one of them could not move a muscle. Sherlock's eyes were wide, his brain working rapidly now when he got the confirmation of his theory. John, Mary and Molly were shaken and terrified. Molly's eyes were filling with tears. A few of them spilled over her cheeks and she brought her hands to her face. Her sudden movement caught Sherlock's attention. He felt he needed to reassure his friends, to make them feel safe. And to stop Molly from crying. Every tear she shed was like a fresh stab wound to his heart.

He cleared his throat. "We should be going now. I think we are all in a need o rest. Especially you, Mary. I am afraid the current stress had increased your blood pressure." John looked at his wife and nodded.

"I will take her to the doctor. Just for a check-up" He added when he saw Mary's stern look.

"Alright. Your house will be guarded. The two of you should be as safe as you can be." Sherlock said.

Mary and John nodded and Mary started getting up from her chair with John's help. Sherlock turned his attention to Molly. She still had her face in her hands. He hesitated for a second and then put a hand on her shoulder. She moved her hands and looked at him. "Molly..." he said softly. The softness of his voice attracting Mary and John's attention.

Molly slowly nodded and got up from her chair, Sherlock's hand still on her shoulder. They were standing like that for a few seconds, eyes locked. Then Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat. "I will take your bag."

He went to her room and took her two bags. While he was away, Molly scooped Toby and inelegantly shoved him in the cat-carrier. Toby hated the thing and the sooner it was over, the better.

Sherlock re-emerged from her bedroom and the four of them left her flat. Molly and Sherlock said their goodbyes to the Watsons and got into a cab. The drive to Baker Street was silent. When they got there, a scared Mrs Hudson wordlessly took them in and pulled Molly in a hug. Sherlock took her bags to her room and she followed. It was around four in the afternoon, but Molly felt exhausted. She took a shower and went to sleep.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, deep in thought. He had identified the problem, now he needed to calculate the possible outcomes. He had to play the game carefully. Mistakes, however small, were intolerable.

Sherlock was still sitting in his chair when the night crept upon London. Street lights dimly illuminated Baker Street. Sherlock put up a fire and enjoyed the warmth that was spreading from the fireplace. Suddenly, a scream echoed through his apartment. He was on his feet and in Molly's bedroom before he even realized what he was doing. Before he knew it, he was holding her in her arms, gazing in her scared eyes filled with tears. "S-Sherlock..." She was crying. "It was a-a d-dream. I-I dreamt that... that I w-woke up and... and... t-that he was here!" Sher buried her face in the crook of his neck. Sherlock felt a strong sensation spreading through his body. He held her tighter.

"Molly." His voice was hoarse. "Calm down. Come with me."

She obeyed. He took her small hand in his and led her downstairs. He led her to his own bedroom. Molly's eyes widened when she realized where they were going.

"You will sleep in my bedroom. And I will leave the door opened. That way I will be close to you and no one will be able to get in without me seeing it." He said silently.

Molly smiled widely. He was trying to make her feel safe. That was really sweet and Molly pulled him in a hug without thinking. Sherlock wasn't stiff or uncomfortable. He immediately put his arms around her and pulled her closer. She moved a bit after a while and looked him in the eyes. "Thank you, Sherlock." She gave him a kiss on the cheek and went to his bedroom.

Sherlock remained in the hallway, battling an impulse to follow her and... _NO!_ He snapped. _Mistakes, however small, are intolerable. _He reminded himself. _And I would be the death of her._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The night was cold. He turned off the heating because he needed to concentrate and the cold air around him sharpened his mind. His movements were swift and determined. He walked through his Mind Palace while sitting in his chair in Baker Street. The Palace has changed. Beside him, another person took up residence in the whole West wing. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to her rooms and he could already feel her presence. That part of the Palace was warmer and more inviting. He closed his eyes and lightly sniffed the air, a hint of a lemony aroma tingling his senses. He slowly took step by step until he was in a dimly lit hall. He was following the heavenly aroma to what used to be only her room in his mind. He needed her. He needed her because he needed to think. And her presence gave him a sense of clarity and peace.

He used to take cocaine when he needed to clear his mind, when he needed to work at a pace he alone could not dictate. Oh, everything would fall into place, evidence would sort in a clear web, forming an undisputable answer to every one of his questions. But when his mind was on overdrive, he would let the sweet sensation of heroin in his bloodstream dull his senses and shut his Mind Palace. He would venture into his own, barely used master bedroom in the West wing and sleep. Oh, it was so sweet. To rest without resting, think without thinking. Those were his drugs of choice. Until he found a new one. Molly Hooper.

Sherlock didn't own a bedroom in his Mind Palace anymore. Those rooms were hers now. Decorated exactly like her apartment. Sherlock didn't need to change the speed of his constantly working mind either. He would simply rest in her close proximity and his mind would work admirably. Her sheer presence was changing him entirely, turning him into a whole new sort of an addict. Always an addict. Because love... Love was a chemical defect. An illusion created by various chemicals in his body. Neurotransmitters binding to their specific receptors and creating a chemical answer followed by an electrical impulse. In that elaborated cascade of reactions running his mind and body, cocaine and heroin from his blood would bind, creating a different kind of answer.

Love was a chemical defect. And Sherlock Holmes, always an addict, was entirely consumed by it.

Molly Hooper was in her living-room, sitting on a couch. She gave him an inviting smile and patted the couch beside her. He wordlessly walked to her and rested his head on her lap. Her soft fingers grazed through his curls, creating a wonderful sensation that was spreading through his entire body. His mind was finally rested, peaceful and ready to work at top speed. Everything he knew about Moriarty, every single association with his name, was at the centre of his attention, processed and reprocessed, analyzed, categorized, labelled and sorted. He had to, he needed to anticipate his every move. He needed to know his exact thoughts and intentions. But, he couldn't. Not entirely. Because he wasn't dealing with James Moriarty he had known. He needed to figure out the new set of rules Professor Moriarty was about to set. _Professor Moriarty._ He needed to know just how elaborate their game was. The Moriarty brothers.

Professor Moriarty was different from his dead brother. Sherlock could feel his superior intelligence, standing out like his own. But he was more... dark. More... mocking. He knew Sherlock would figure him out so he threw himself at his face. He was literally mocking him, attacking his friends, or rather pretending to be attacking them. Sherlock wondered how the Professor would act now when the game truly was on. He told him he would be terminating his surveillance. Sherlock honestly trusted him because he believed he too was addicted to the thrill of the chase. The thrill of outsmarting. He had a feeling, a strong feeling this would be the most elaborate and dangerous game of his life.

A sense of determination engulfed his mind. His muscles tensed. He will win. He will beat him. Nobody beats Sherlock Holmes.

He suddenly opened his eyes. His empty living-room greeted him back coldly. He inhaled deeply, cold air prickling his lungs. It was dawning outside. Fresh snow was piled up on the curbs, reflecting the little light that shone on it. Everything was se peaceful, so quiet. But for the first time in his life, Sherlock appreciated it. The next time the tranquillity would be disturbed, it will be Moriarty's doing and Sherlock knew it would be devastating. He calculated there were around three or four days before Moriarty's next move. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't look up to it. He didn't sit impatiently in his chair, pouting and shooting walls out of sheer boredom and impatience. He enjoyed the little time he had left.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He physically missed Molly's touch. A touch that only occurred in his consciousness, in the Mind Palace, but still... He slowly walked over to his bedroom, hesitating at the doorstep. He quietly pushed the door wide open and looked at her. She was wrapped up in his blanket, her light brown hair sprawled across his pillow. She was so peaceful and beautiful. His heart ached because he could never give her what she needed. It was not about him anymore. Well, it never had been. All that mattered was her happiness and Sherlock knew he alone could not ensure it. Not for a lifetime. And Molly Hooper deserved no less.

It was almost sensational how incredibly wrong he had been. All of his life, Sherlock had thought love was a sentiment found on the losing side. That love could only slow a person down and make them weak. He had thought love would destroy his ability to work, and the work was all that mattered. But now, love was the only thing insuring his sanity and brilliance. He had to have her. At least in his Mind Palace. Acknowledging that he loved her, Sherlock enabled himself a realm of unimaginable possibilities. Like any other addict, he could function solely on his drug of choice. He could go longer without food or sleep because he had her in his mind, gently stroking his hair and occasionally kissing his forehead. The physical need for her was almost overwhelming, but it was a price Sherlock was willing to pay. He would never have her, truly have her because he knew he would eventually destroy her.

She moved in her sleep. A small frown appeared on her face. Something was worrying her. She was obviously having another nightmare. She grabbed the pillow tighter and murmured his name, calling him to her aid. Sherlock froze. He closed his eyes. His heart was pounding in his chest. He was ready to kill, to destroy anything or anyone that could harm her. Even himself. He was standing like that for a couple of moments until Molly sighed and turned in the bed. Sherlock in her dreams obviously did something the real Sherlock couldn't – he came to her and protected her. He silently paced to the edge of the bed and adjusted the blanket around her. It was very cold in the room and he mentally smacked himself for not thinking about her earlier. There it was, simple everyday life and he was already failing admirably. How could a beautiful, intelligent woman ever love a selfish arsehole like himself?

He exited the room and turned on the heating. He even built a fire in the living-room. She was staying with him now, under his protection – the least he could do is to try and make it more accommodating. He cleared his kitchen table a bit, throwing away the outdated, long-forgotten experiments, leaving only the ones he intended to examine later. He even washed the dishes. He figured she would be hungry when she woke up because she hadn't eaten much in the past couple of days. "Time to hail Mrs Hudson."

His landlady (_not your housekeeper_) decided not to ask many questions about his current living arrangements. She had always known Molly's feelings towards Sherlock and she could see him warming up to her. But her boy built up so many walls around his heart, she doubted he would ever allow himself to truly love. And he was lonely. She brought a tray with tea and breakfast upstairs. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, but wide awake. Mrs Hudson came closer to him and put her hand onto his cheek. He looked up and she thought he looked 10 years younger. _Like that little junkie bloke I welcomed to my life. _She kissed his forehead and silently spoke.

"Everything is going to be alright, dear. You are going win the game like you always have."

After that, she returned to her own flat.

He got up and walked to his room. He sat at the edge of the bed and inhaled deeply. Molly was still sleeping, but the blanket rolled down to her waist, exposing her chest covered only by a very thin nightgown. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He brought a hand to her shoulder and shook her gently.

"Molly." He spoke gently. "Molly. Wake up."

She opened her eyes and gazed into his. They stayed like that for a few seconds, his hand still lingering on her shoulder. Then Molly realized she was basically half naked and stirred. Sherlock snapped out of it and moved his hand. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"Molly. Mrs Hudson brought fresh tea and breakfast, I... I figured you were hungry."

"Umm... Yes. I'm starving actually." She smiled. "I'll be there in a minute"

He nodded and exited the bedroom. Molly went to the bathroom and steadied herself against the closed door. The place his hand connected with her bare skin was still burning her. When she opened her eyes, she saw his eyes barely containing something she could only describe as strong emotions. She shook her head. _It is Sherlock_. She thought. _Sherlock doesn't..._ Sherlock doesn't what? Love? Want? Desire? No. She was imagining things, still under the impression of her dreams. In her dreams, he was always there when she needed him. After everything that had happened, she couldn't allow herself to think he would ever love her or want her. It was starting to be dangerous for her. But deep inside Molly knew she would never love another man. One does not simply fall in love with the love of one's life, just to give up and move on without life-changing consequences. She would rather be his friend for the rest of her life, unmarried and without a family, than be in an unhappy relationship with someone, wishing it were him and asking herself "what if". Her loneliness will be her choice. She smiled, proud of herself. She got a long way from being a mousy little pathologist who couldn't utter a word to the great detective without stuttering. She was a strong, independent woman, a woman that didn't need a man to make her happy.

She took a shower and brushed her teeth, moved by the fact Sherlock remembered to bring her toothbrush to his bathroom. She thought living with him would be hellish (John was on the verge of killing him more than once), but for now, he proved to be a considering flatmate. She shook her head. _It's only because he wants to make me feel safe and welcome_. She was even more moved when she remembered how gentle he was during her nightmare incident.

One thing the great detective didn't remember was to bring down some of her clothes. Molly chuckled, not bothered by it. She wrapped his dark blue dressing gown around her pink nightgown. She looked decent enough.

When she finally got to the kitchen, Sherlock was already sitting at the (now clean) table, serving tea.

"Oh, my..." She sighed. Mrs Hudson was a saint. There were blueberry scones, pancakes and some toast. Delightful aroma filled the entire apartment. Molly smiled widely and took her place at the table.

While she was admiring the food, Sherlock barely contained himself from jumping at her and... _Oh, god... She is so beautiful... _He shook his head, composing himself. There she was. Molly Hooper, standing in his kitchen, wearing only a lacy pink nightgown and his dressing gown over it. Her hair was falling over her shoulders, softening her face. Her skin looked so soft. He sighed. Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to delete that image from his mind even if his life depended on it.

Sherlock handed her a fresh cup of tea. Of course he would know how she took her tea. Two sugars. She took a blueberry scone and it tasted like pure heaven. She almost moaned with pleasure.

Sherlock chuckled. "I guess it was a good idea to call Mrs Hudson to my aid. I don't think you'd be so delighted with a breakfast of my making."

Molly laughed. She looked at him more carefully. "Sherlock... How long has it been since you've had a full night's sleep?"

His smile fell immediately. His voice was silent. "Christmas Eve."

Molly's mouth fell open. "But Sherlock! Today is the New Year's Eve! What's that, seven days?"

He nodded.

"Oh, god... How can you stand on your feet? You are going to bed immediately!"

He looked amused. "And how exactly are you planning to make me?"

"I don't care! You're abusing your body and your mind as well, Sherlock. You have to rest! And I'm even afraid to ask when was the last time you ate anything..."

Sherlock just smiled and took a scone. Molly watched him as he ate and then she put another one on his plate. Sherlock chuckled. "Are you going to feed me now, Molly Hooper?"

She smiled back. "If that's what it takes to get some food in you."

He laughed and obeyed. He ate a full plate of scones and toasts. He silently admitted to himself he really needed food that morning.

"Well. I got you to eat. Now I only have to get you to bed." She chuckled and then froze, realizing the double meaning of her words. Her cheeks blushed. Sherlock laughed out loud.

"Don't worry, Molly. I understand what you truly meant. Or at least I think I do." He raised his eyebrow.

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh... Oh, no, I-I just..." Her cheeks were literally red.

Sherlock threw his head back, laughing out loud. "I'm just kidding, Molly."

Molly remained still for a moment and then started laughing too. She has never seen Sherlock so open and mirthful. His curls were a bit too long, but still somehow forming a classy mess. Molly couldn't help but admire his appearance. He usually looked so stiff, not in a bad way, more like a marble statue of a Greek deity. Now he... he looked like a happy, ordinary man. And it was so surprising to see him like that because she knew he was neither happy nor ordinary.

Sherlock got up and playfully took a scone from her hand and popped it in his mouth. Molly stuck her tongue out like a little child and it made Sherlock laugh so hard, he almost choked on the stolen scone.

"Molly Hooper." His voice was hoarse. "You are going to be the death of me."

He turned around, still laughing, and went to his bedroom, presumably to take a shower in the en-suite bathroom and change.

Molly remained in the kitchen, still amazed by the unbelievably _human _moment they shared, so entirely un-Sherlock. She was simply amazed by him. She finished eating and cleared the table. A few remaining scones and pancakes were stored for later. After that, she went to John's bedroom (she simply couldn't call it her own because she hadn't slept one whole night in it) and changed into more suiting clothes.

At the same time, Sherlock slammed his back against the bathroom door and inhaled deeply. He thanked the deity he didn't believe in for being able to control his body. But the image of Molly in his kitchen invaded his mind again, doing wonders to his body. He felt his heart racing and his mind blanking out. All he could see was her. Her soft brown hair falling over her collarbone, ending just above her small breasts... He felt a rush of blood burning his veins like molten lava. His dressing gown was gathered at her waist, emphasizing her delicate feminine curves. The dark blue fabric ended just below her knee, dancing on her creamy skin... Sherlock took his clothes off and stepped into the shower. His body froze with shock at the contact with icy cold water. But his mind welcomed it.

They spent the day together. Sherlock refused to go to sleep and Molly took out a book and curled up in John's chair. Sherlock decided to work on the case, but he was constantly being drawn to Molly. He was enjoying her company. It wasn't like with John, Sherlock felt different while being around her. He was aware of her every breath, her every move. He could never make himself ignore her, not even while being in the depths of his Mind Palace, searching for Moriarty. Even then, Sherlock was aware of her real presence. And it was doing wonders to his brainwork.

Later in the afternoon, Mary and John came over. They immediately noticed Sherlock's strange behaviour. He looked...genuinely happy. Mary eyed Molly with amused suspicion. John couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"Seriously, Sherlock? I've lived with you for years and you've never behaved so...human! And you've certainly never made ME this happy!" He eyed Molly and chuckled. Sherlock's eyed widened with confusion and he looked at John.

"What exactly are you insinuating?"

Molly blushed while Mary and John were laughing at Sherlock's confused expression.

"Nothing, mate, nothing. We're just happy that Molly hadn't killed you. Yet."

That extracted a grin from Sherlock and a small smile from Molly. She stood up to his defence.

"Oh, no. He's great. He even ate breakfast with me this morning!" She chuckled.

That caused Mary laugh even more. "You mean, you turned him into a real alive boy? Without Geppetto's help?"

Sherlock's confused face made them all laugh. John had to stoop down and grab his own knees. Molly's book fell to the floor.

Sherlock sat in his chair and pouted, clearly annoyed. When they calmed down a bit, John spoke.

"Sorry, mate. But it's really great to see you behaving yourself, considering the circumstances..."

Molly got up and gestured towards John's chair. John gladly took it while Molly and Mary walked over to the sofa.

Mary asked her silently. "So really, how's it been? How's he treating you? Just tell me and I swear I'll shoot him again if he's misbehaving." She eyed Sherlock and he eyed her back playfully, obviously overhearing their conversation. They all laughed.

"No, he's really wonderful. I feel as safe as I can be, I guess. This was a really good idea." Molly admitted. Sherlock's lip twitched for a second, but Mary took note of it. She brought a hand over Molly's shoulders and they started talking about Mary's check-up the day before.

"Little Miss Watson is behaving pretty well, I have to say. I might have stressed her out a bit during the past two days, but she obviously had her revenge by mercilessly kicking my bladder." They laughed.

Sherlock and John, on the other hand, were deep in talk about Moriarty. Sherlock sighed.

"I assure you, John. Nothing is going to happen in the next couple of days. He wants to put pressure on us gradually. I imagine we will hear from him in three to four days, not before."

John looked worried nevertheless. "Sherlock..." He said silently. "What do you think will happen?" His voice was barely above whisper. "What do you think he wants?"

"Well, I can't know for sure yet. We will have to wait." He sighed. "Probably something boring like me jumping of a roof. So three years ago." He chuckled.

John chuckled back. "You know, the last time you said that, we were both trapped in a train covered in explosive."

They heard Mary's voice calling them. "Boys! You know, I've had an idea! Since John and I turned into early risers, we won't be able to stay awake until midnight. We could celebrate our own New Year right now!"

Molly smiled happily and John shouted. "That's a great idea! I'll call Lestrade! And Mrs Hudson!"

He stormed out of the apartment with his mobile phone in his hands. Mary and Molly continued talking about Mary's ongoing pregnancy and baby names. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, watching Molly. She seemed genuinely happy. Their eyes met and his throat went dry. But it wasn't enough. There was always more. For her. And for him. He knew his cravings for her wouldn't just go away. She was like a drug to him. He would have to do everything in his power to remain in complete control of his body. The fact that she was following him around his Mind Palace looking exactly like she had that morning in the kitchen wasn't helping at all. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Around 15 minutes later, John and Mrs Hudson joined them. Mrs Hudson was carrying a big tray filled with pastries of all kinds and John was carrying a big chocolate cake. Molly and Mary were astonished. Mrs Hudson simply said. "Why, I knew we would have guests." And winked.

Mary sighed. "You, Mrs Hudson, are a saint." The older lady kissed her cheek.

Another 15 minutes passed before Lestrade came in with a bottle of champagne and fresh apple juice. He handed the bottle to John, while he poured a glass of juice and handed it to Mary. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. He smiled.

"Don't worry, love. I would've shot him for less." Mary laughed while Sherlock did his best to hide his grin.

Once their glasses were full, they stood around in a circle. John cleared his throat.

"Happy New Year! And let it be better than the last! Or the one before! In fact, let's just get rid of the new Moriarty guy without casualties and without one of us killing Sherlock and it'll be good enough for me! Cheers!" He shouted in a deep hoarse voice, making everybody laugh.

"Happy New Year!" everybody shouted. Well, everybody except Sherlock, who just smiled and downed his champagne.

The night was falling down when they left. Mary pulled Molly in a hug, whispering something in her ear that made Molly blush a deep shade of red. She hugged Sherlock next, kissing him on the cheek and whispering "Behave!" with a playful, but deadly look in her eyes. Sherlock kissed her back and winked.

They left and Mrs Hudson went to see them off. Sherlock and Molly looked at each other. Sherlock smiled.

"So... What are you planning on doing for the rest of the night?"

Surprise was evident in Molly's eyes. She expected he would simply go back to work once the rest of his friends were gone. "Umm... I-I don't know."

"Well, I guess some dinner is in order." He stated. "I bet Mrs Hudson has that covered too." He chuckled.

"Poor woman." Molly smiled. "After this, she won't be able to say she's only your landlady, not your housekeeper."

Sherlock smiled and went downstairs. Molly went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. There she was, having a New Year's Eve dinner with Sherlock. Wearing a pair of black jeans and a blue, flower patterned blouse. She let down her hair and applied some mascara. Her cheeks were pink enough from Mary's departing advice. Molly chuckled nervously while remembering her words. _Remember dear, it's New Year's Eve! Put on some sexy lingerie, just in case!_

Of course, she'd do no such thing. Mary was only kidding and she knew it. Molly eyed herself up and down. She looked pretty. Nowhere near beautiful, but good enough for such an occasion in one's apartment.

She went to the kitchen where Sherlock left a tray with their dinner_. Oh, god_... Mrs Hudson had outdone herself. At that moment, Sherlock returned with a bottle of wine. Molly was looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"What? " he asked her, clearly amused.

"Oh, nothing, Sherlock." She smiled. "You're making this look like a real date." A couple of years ago, she wouldn't be able to bring herself to say such a teasing thing to Sherlock. He was looking at her, the same thought on his mind.

"Well, you just wait, Molly Hooper." He said seriously, a playful gleam in his eyes. He pulled her chair out and gestured towards it. Oh, Sherlock _could_ be a tease.

The dinner was delightful. They talked about a variety of topics that would gross other, normal people over dinner. They discussed some of her recent interesting autopsies. Sherlock was eager to hear about every gruesome detail, often solving a case immediately. One particular case of a stab-wound to the back of a neck with an unidentified weapon made Sherlock laugh. Molly looked at him, confused.

"Well, Molly. It seems our victim was killed by nothing else than a meat-dagger!" He barely spoke those last words, dying with laughter. The wine was obviously working its way around his boundaries. Molly laughed out loud. Then she stopped and her eyes widened. Sherlock was alarmed by her sudden change of mood.

"Molly, I am sorry. Forgive me. I should not make fun of your ex-fiancé, it is not decent..." he went on.

"Oh... Oh, no. It's okay, Sherlock. Thanks." She sighed. "It's just... No, it's stupid." She sighed and drank a bit of her wine.

"Do tell." Sherlock said, mirroring her action.

"Well... I guess... I guess you don't know why I called off my engagement." She spoke, looking at her glass. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, indeed not knowing the reason. He had always presumed she realized what an utter idiot Tom was.

"Well... It's just that... I wasn't happy enough with him. I mean, I was happy, but it didn't feel enough. Not enough for marriage, at least. Right now I realized how happy I am at the moment, with... with you. With a friend. And I realized I am more happy now than while being with Tom. I realized I made a good decision. Calling the wedding off, I mean. I was just shocked with the realization, that's all." Her words were quick, her voice silent. But it spread warmth through Sherlock. _She's happy with me. Right here. Right now. _Somewhere in the back of his mind, his own voice was yelling that it wasn't enough, that it would never be enough. He knew he didn't deserve her, but it still felt great to know that he made her happy. Even for a moment.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked silently. He was snapped out of his thoughts. "Can I... Can I ask you something ridiculous?"

He raised his brow. "What?" He asked nervously, afraid of his own answer already.

"Well." She swallowed. "I was just wondering if you... if you could play the violin." His eyes widened. "It... it doesn't have to be anything special. It's just..."

"I will, Molly." He smiled. Her surprised expression made him laugh. "Of course, I will play for you."

He stood up and Molly followed him. She sat down in John's old chair. Sherlock took his violin and walked over to the window. He hesitated for only a moment. Molly closed her eyes as the sweet, unknown melody filled the apartment. It was so gentle, so sweet... She immediately knew he was the one that composed it. It was so full of emotion, of...love. Molly didn't know that Sherlock had composed it in his mind while being with her in his Mind Palace. He didn't do it intentionally. But the sweet tune filled his mind while her soft fingers grazed his curls. Once he got a hold on his violin, he performed it like it had been rehearsed hundreds of times before. He poured his heart in it, he turned his love for her into music. Notes saying "I love you", something he would never be able to say to her. And while his mind found release, his heart ached at the thought of never having her.

When the tune ended, Molly was still speechless. Sherlock remained standing near the window, looking outside. She got on her feet and slowly padded towards him. She stopped herself a couple of feet away from him.

"That was... That was wonderful. Thank you, Sherlock." She whispered. He turned around and locked eyes with her.

The giant clock chimed. He smiled. "Happy New Year, Molly Hooper." She smiled back at him.

Sherlock's defences were low due to alcohol in his system and the emotional exhaustion. He lost himself in her warm brown eyes. It was too much. It was all too much. She was so beautiful and so...perfect. He felt like she was made for him, only for him. The thought of another man having her enraged him.

She loved him. She belonged with him. She belonged _to_ him.

Sherlock Holmes, always an addict, was addicted to Molly Hooper. He was overwhelmed by the love he felt for her. And he never wanted to forget that feeling. He slowly walked towards her, his eyes never leaving hers. He brought a hand to her already blushed cheek. Her skin was so soft and warm. Before he could stop himself, before he could think it through, he leaned in and gently pressed his lips onto hers.

AN: Once again, thank you for the rewievs!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Her lips were so soft and warm... It felt so right, so... natural. She kissed him back immediately, not hesitating a single moment. His hands found their way to the small of her back and hers were softly placed over his chest. When the soft, slow kiss came to an end, they did not retreat. His lips never left hers as he inhaled slowly. She could feel his breath tickling her skin. He was standing there for the shortest moment, his eyes closed, before parting his lips and gently kissing her again.

Sherlock Holmes felt as if he had been searching all of his life up to that point for a... for something. Maybe meaning? A higher purpose? He had found his higher purpose in the work. The work was all that ever mattered. The thrill of the chase, the mystery alone gave him more pleasure, intellectual and otherwise, than any kind of sentiment ever could. Certainly more than any woman in his life ever had. Contrary to the belief of his friends, Sherlock Holmes was not a virgin. He was quite experienced in the realms of physical pleasures but simply determined not to indulge in them anymore. Body was only a transport and sex was distracting. Over the years, he managed to get in complete control of his body and his more animalistic desires. All that had ever mattered was the work and the work alone it was.

But this... Holding her in his arms made him feel complete. He didn't think, he didn't analyze or calculate. He could only feel. And never had he felt so utterly lost before. Never had he felt so... possessed by emotion. His love for her was simply overwhelming and he had to act on it.

As her hands softly trailed their way to the back of his head, grazing through his curls, Sherlock lightly gasped and pulled her closer. He could feel her petite frame pressed against his own body, a physical feeling that was starting to stir a familiar, more primal sensation deep inside of him. He tilted his head slightly to the side and deepened the kiss. He could feel her breath on his skin, her heartbeat almost outrunning his own while their tongues danced slowly around each other.

He brought a hand to her right cheek, gently cupping it, while his other arm was holding her softly, but firmly around her waist. Their lips finally parted and he moved his head just enough to see her eyes. Her pupils were dilated, making her eyes almost entirely black with desire. Her cheeks were flushed and her small, sensual lips swollen. They remained in each other's arms for a while, eyes locked, making the moment feel even more intimate than the kiss itself. Sherlock knew she loved him. He knew she wanted him. He knew he was supposed to be thinking and calculating his way out of that compromising position. But not only that he didn't want to, he simply couldn't. She was all that existed, all that mattered.

He wanted her so badly. Never before had he experienced a need as strong as his need for her. And that coming from him, being a former drug addict, really spoke volumes. He could no longer control his body. He could barely control his willing actions.

She brought her hands to his cheeks, spreading warmth through his flesh that made him close his eyes and sigh. When he looked at her again, all he could see was pure perfection. His Molly. His loving, caring, perfect Molly. He smiled softly. He cupped her flushed cheeks and slowly kissed her. Then he slowly pulled away and traced her bottom lip with his thumb. Her eyelashes fluttered and she gasped. She looked into his completely black eyes, surrounded by a thin emerald line. His silent baritone voiced the words, but those eyes, his eyes, spoke volumes. More than he was and probably ever will be able to say.

"Good night, Molly Hooper."

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, when she reached her room, she slumped on the bed. She traced her lips with the tips of her fingers and smiled widely. That night, Molly Hooper looked into his eyes and saw him, really saw him. And what she saw confused her and delighted her at the same tame. Could it really be true? Could he... <em>Could he really love me?<em>

Sherlock knew Molly was probably the only other person that could see his well hidden feelings. Despite constantly wearing a mask of indifference and composure, Molly could clearly see what was in his heart, like he was wearing it on a sleeve. She could always find a crack in the thick walls surrounding his true self. So when she looked into his eyes that night, she could literally feel his love for her. Love, desire, need...

She brought a hand over her eyes. She was tired, but her whole body was tingling with excitement. The feeling of his lips on hers, of his body pressed against hers... she inhaled deeply and composed herself. She would give him a benefit of making the next step. She would not over think or overreact. She would wait for him to be ready. Sherlock Holmes was not an ordinary man with ordinary feelings. Despite being a self-proclaimed sociopath, Molly knew his feelings were actually more intense than those of other, normal human beings and she knew that was the reason why he tried so hard to keep them at bay. She knew that Sherlock would probably beat himself about what had happened that night. But she decided she would not give him any further reasons to regret it. Because she herself could not and would not regret it. Molly decided to act composed and perfectly normal. In spite of accepting a lifetime of only a friendship with him, she still loved him. She closed her eyes and fell asleep with a taste of him on her lips...

He closed the door behind him and slammed his back against it. He breathed heavily and his heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. He wanted her, he wanted her so badly his body physically ached with desire. _But not like this_.

He slammed his fist against his forehead. _Why have I done that? Why have I kissed her_?

He knew that from that point there was no going back. Once he got a taste of her, he wanted more. He had never been so aroused before. Sex had been just a physical act for him, never connected to any kind of sentiment, certainly not to love. But he loved Molly and it made him want her with every fibre of his being.

He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself but his Mind Palace let him down. While he was running through it, trying to find a safe haven where he could relax and regain his composure, all he could see was her. She was everywhere. His perfect photographic memory took note of every detail. Her creamy skin, blushed cheeks... her swollen lips... her dark eyes... Her dark eyes that showed him just how much she loved and wanted him. But he could not... He could not give her what she wanted. It was too dangerous. Love was a weakness. But Sherlock knew it was not his weakness, Molly was the one that would become weak if connected to him on that level. Moriarty was after him. He already knew how important Molly was to Sherlock, but being with him would quite literally draw a target on her back. He could not do that to her, he loved her too much..._ But she loves you too_..._It has to be as excruciating for her as it is for you..._

He lowered himself to the floor. He took a few deep breaths. Sherlock was not a man of emotion. He either felt too much or didn't feel at all. Molly Hooper was bringing up a war within his own mind. She brought up the best and the worst of him, all at once. The selfish, evil part of him wanted her, wanted to take her and have her for himself because the alternative was too hard. He had never felt like that before. Sherlock felt safe to think that he hadn't known love before falling in love with Molly. So he didn't want to deny himself what he desired the most. Finally being with her would make her happy too. She had been in love with him for as long as he could remember, probably since the first time they met. So the Evil Sherlock wanted to get up, run upstairs, pour out his heart and make love to her. But Molly also brought up a good, gentle side of him. A side of him that would be ravaged by guilt for giving her such high hopes where there was really no ground for them. He could never be a perfect man Molly deserved. He could never give her desired future and family. He was a sociopath that constantly hurt her, he was a selfish, uncaring bastard that would eventually disappoint her and break her heart. That would destroy her and he couldn't bring himself to risk it. He wouldn't break her heart on purpose, he just wasn't able not to. He would destroy her.

Good and Evil Sherlock were fighting all across the Mind Palace for the better part of the night. When he finally opened his eyes, it was dawn. The first day of a new year, a fictional fresh start. But nothing had changed from the day before. It is a mistake often made by most of people. One thinks one can make a big change in the ways of life and often decides to make a fresh start. But our past never truly leaves us. Sherlock's past was haunting him, lurking from the dark corners surrounding him. First rays of light were mocking him.

He felt so physically and emotionally exhausted, he couldn't bear it anymore. He eyed his unmade bed, still carrying her scent and mocking him with a reminder of her presence. When he laid his head on the pillow and inhaled her scent, shadows crept upon him, engulfing every corner of his dark mind and darkening it even more...

When he opened his eyes again, it was late afternoon. He stretched his tensed body, dull pain spreading through his muscles. He got up, went to the bathroom and let the warm water cleanse his body and mind. He was able to think clearly once again, but the events from the night before invaded his mind. Every single detail of their kiss was seared into his mind. He could actually _feel_ it. He was fully aware of the familiar sensation of arousal slowly overtaking him. He could not fight it. The great battle that took place inside of his mind was still without a winner.

All Sherlock wanted was to get away from her, to stop loving her because it really would be the best thing for her. She would be hurt, but not as much as she would be when he would finally disappoint her and break her heart. It was inevitable. But he couldn't do it. Despite his better judgement, he couldn't bear to hurt her even for her own good. He wanted to, needed to make her happy.

But honestly, would it really be that disastrous? He would really try, he would try hard and Molly wouldn't have unrealistic expectations. Or would she? Would she expect the unimaginable from him? Marriage? Children? Domesticity? Did Molly even really want those things herself?

He connected his forehead with the cold tiles in the shower. It was creating a wonderful sensation because the water was nearly burning hot. He steadied himself with both hands clenched into fists against the wall and let the detained memory hit him with full force. He gasped as he was remembering the feeling of her warm lips against his own, her delicate body wrapped around him. Her small, but firm breasts pressed against chest. His heart was beating rapidly, the blood pumping through his veins burning its way through his body. For a moment, he let all of his defences down. The Evil Sherlock took over his consciousness entirely. He couldn't think of the future and the consequences. He wasn't able to. He wanted her badly and needed a release. He choked a moan when he firmly gripped his hardness. A sweet blankness overtook his mind, erasing every thought, every ongoing process. She was all that remained. The sweetness of her lips, the burning sensation of her touch were spreading through his mind and body until it was too much to bear. As his release came, his muscles tensed to the point of pain. He gasped, knowing the satisfaction was only temporary. He needed her.

But now he would be at least able to function normally in her presence.

He returned to his bedroom and put on his usual attire. Black trousers and a white shirt. His waltzed to the living-room and found her curled up on the sofa. She raised her eyes and met his. A small smile appeared on her lips. He took note of the immediate dilation of her pupils.

"Molly." His voice was soft and quiet.

"Sherlock." She smiled.

They were standing in silence, eyes locked, for a few moments. Molly mentally smacked herself. _Behave! _She jumped to her feet, making her way to the kitchen. "Are you hungry?"

He chuckled. "Actually, I am." He followed her to the kitchen and took his place at the table. Molly was sure she broke at least a couple of ribs containing the urge to jump and him and kiss him. His cheeks were a soft shade of pink, barely noticeable on his marble skin. His curls were still slightly damp, forming an attractive mess.

She smiled. "I thought so. You have slept for two days, you know." Her smile grew wider at the sight of his confusion. "Sherlock. It's Thursday, January the 2nd. You'd been awake for six days, your body needed rest."

Sherlock was literally stunned. He had slept for almost two days? Around 36 hours? How could he be so irresponsible? _You idiot_! He jumped from the table and strode to the living-room, leaving a confused Molly behind. He took in the sight before him. His wall was partly covered in photos and documents. It was not enough. He needed more information. First in order was to put his Homeless Network on a specific task. He grabbed his Belstaff and his blue scarf, only to remember it was still covered in his blood.

"Blasted thing." He muttered under his breath and threw the scarf away.

He was at the door already when he remembered Molly. He shook his head and headed back. She was standing in the kitchen, still in the process of preparing food. He slowly came behind her and placed a hand on her shoulders.

"I need to go out. I will be back soon." Her eyes were wide. He took a deep breath.

"Sherlock... Is everything alright?" She mentally smacked herself. _Is everything alright, you bloody idiot, Moriarty's out there, he's on a case, is everything alright... _She shook her head with the realization. "O-Ok. I'll be here, you don't have to worry. I-I can prepare dinner if you... if you'd like?"

He smiled softly. "I never eat while I'm working, digestion slows me down. But... thank you."

He hesitated for a moment before placing a soft kiss on her cheek. He turned around and left with a smile on his face. Molly took a deep breath and shook her head.

* * *

><p>He hailed a black cab and gave the driver the address. The car stopped near Hyde park and Sherlock stepped out. He made a few steps before spotting a young blonde woman, obviously a beggar. He approached her and gave her an envelope. She smiled. "Thank you, sir, God bless." The envelope contained a hundred pounds and three photographs.<p>

Sherlock retreated back to the cab and took off towards the Diogenes club. The man at the door bowed and led him straight towards Mycroft's private chamber. His brother was standing behind his desk with a glass in his hands.

"It is wonderful to see you drinking instead of eating you troubles away, brother dear."

Mycroft's face remained unreadable. He finished his bourbon in one sip.

"Sherlock. I see you have finally stepped out of the bliss of domesticity and focused on the work." His smile was venomous.

"Enough of that, Mycroft. What do you have on Moriarty?"

Mycroft sighed. "Absolutely nothing, brother mine." He walked towards the window. "There is no word of him. Not even a whisper." He turned to look his younger brother in the eyes. "I have my best men on the case. The whole country is on its feet. But this Professor Moriarty, as you have informed me, has simply vanished."

Sherlock sighed. "I cannot say I am surprised. I have my people, yes my Homeless Network", he added when he saw Mycroft's glare, "tracking some people. Shut it, Mycroft. You know my people are highly capable and more valuable right now than your agents. I need to hear every whisper, every thought about him. It won't be directly about him. He had managed to stay in the shadows for the whole time his brother was playing with us. I think... I am convinced this was planned years ahead."

Mycroft was watching him wordlessly for a whole minute before speaking silently. "You know he's after you, brother dear. He does not care for collateral damage. He will kill thousands if necessary just to smoke you out and get you." He observed his brother for a short while before speaking again, barely above whisper. "And you know you are creating a deadly liability for yourself. He will use her against you. He will use her to cloud your mind, Sherlock. To beat you. To kill you."

Sherlock moved his gaze to the floor. He clenched his fist on the armrest. "Brother dear." His voice was silent. "I do not think it is in my power anymore to stop myself from creating that liability. I am afraid it is already too late..."

When Mycroft spoke again, he was only a step away from his brother. "Sherlock... you do love her, don't you?" Sherlock looked up and met his brother's gaze. "Yes, Mycroft." He swallowed. "I love her."

Mycroft smiled sadly. His younger brother was such a mess. "I see."

"Don't." Sherlock said quickly. "Just don't."

"I wasn't going to, Sherlock." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I think Dr Hooper could be... good for you, brother mine."

"I thought sentiment was weakness." Sherlock said.

"Obviously not for you." Mycroft smiled. Sherlock rested back in his chair, surprised by his brother's deduction. They remained silent for a few minutes.

Sherlock stood up. "I have to go back." Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. "If I were you, brother dear, I would keep my eyes opened. I can't know what he is going to do, but I have a feeling it is going to be big."

Mycroft's voice reached him while he was walking out. "The East wind is coming, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>On the way back, he texted John.<p>

_Where are you? -SH_

_At home. Have you really slept for two whole days? –JW_

_I see you have contacted Molly. Around 36 hours. –SH_

_Bloody hell. Has she poisoned you? –JW_

_Stop your attempts at being funny, John. We need to talk. –SH_

_Moriarty? –JW_

_Yes. And no. –SH_

_Moriarty and Molly then __. -JW_

_Yes. –SH_

_I knew it. I told you the other day. –JW_

_I'm coming over.-SH_

_Okay.-JW_

When the car stopped in front of John's house, Mary was already standing on the doorstep. She practically dragged Sherlock inside and shoved him onto the sofa.

"Talk! Now!" She said with a wide grin. John appeared and smiled at his wife.

"Easy, Mary. You are going to scare him away."

"If the two of you find it so amusing, I will simply leave and..."

"Don't you dare, Sherlock Holmes! I may be seven and a half months pregnant, but I will kill you, I swear." Her voice was dangerous, but here eyes were playful.

Sherlock smiled and inhaled. He stapled his fingers and placed them under his chin. His voice was silent when he spoke. " I love her."

"Yes!" Mary squeaked. She started a sort of a victory dance which made John laugh. Sherlock looked at his best friend who was looking him back with a proud expression.

"We know, Sherlock." John smiled. "We are just incredibly happy you finally realized it yourself."

Sherlock smiled. "How do you... "

"Oh, we've known for ages, certainly a lot longer than you." Mary smacked his shoulder and ruffled his hair. She sat beside him and continued with a playful smile on her lips. "Honestly, I've had a weird feeling about the two of you since I first saw you together. But I've known for sure since our wedding." She smiled at his confused expression. "When I first saw you together at Baker Street, after you came back, I saw that you cared for her. And she was evidently in love with you, even considering the fact she brought your clone with her. But at the wedding, I saw the way you were looking at her. She and Tom appeared to be happy, but she was constantly stealing glances towards you. And you... you were looking at her with a mixture of relief and pain in your eyes. That moment I realized you loved her and wished to be with her, but at the same time you were relieved she finally found someone she was apparently happy with. And after, in the lab...You were so embarrassed when she slapped you. You made a rude comment, but I knew you were in pain because you disappointed her. You could have stopped her from slapping you, but you let her because you felt you deserved it. I had a feeling that you would have gone back to the drug den if it weren't for John."

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "I keep forgetting you were a murderous spy."

Mary chuckled. John sat in a chair opposing them. "The question is, my friend, what are you going to do about it?"

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes. "I... I don't know if I can, John. I... I would eventually disappoint her again and break her heart."

"Bullshit, Sherlock." Mary shook her head. "You can't decide that for yourself. Think about her for a moment, will you? Molly loves you! She wants to be with you, but she settled down for friendship because she thinks you will never feel about her the same way she feels about you."

"Yes, Sherlock. She really loves you." John agreed.

Sherlock sighed. "I know, but I can't. I will only put her in much bigger danger, can't you see..."

"But Sherlock..." Mary interrupted. "She has already been attacked. We all have. Moriarty obviously knows how you feel about her."

Sherlock shook his head. "There is not only Moriarty. There will be others. I have wronged many people in my life, most of them deserved it, but I... I've made enemies, enemies that wouldn't hesitate to kill the woman I love just to spite me. I... I can't bring her into all of that..."

John sighed. "Sherlock, can't you see she already is in all of this? You already love her. You live together, for god's sake! People will presume the two of you are romantically involved. The only way you can stop it is to completely turn your back on her and walk away from her life. And I will let you do that over my own dead body!"

Sherlock looked his friend in the eyes. "John, even if I wanted to do that, I would not be able to. I couldn't do that to her. I... I feel like I couldn't live without her... And it scares me. I've never felt like this before. I have never loved a woman in my life. I..."

She felt Mary's hand on her shoulders and turned to see her watery eyes. "Oh, Sherlock!" She pulled him in a hug. "I knew you here human!" A few moments later she pulled back because little Miss Watson was not happy with the sudden change of position and started kicking.

"I swear, Sherlock, this baby is as stubborn as you are!" She chuckled.

"Well, I know I probably should be worried that my pregnant wife just stated our child has inherited some characteristics from my best friend!" John laughed. Mary playfully smacked him across the table.

"Speaking of which, Sherlock..." Mary continued, but then stopped, looking at John. "I... I have always wondered if..."

"You have always wondered if I indeed were a virgin as my nickname suggests. I have to congratulate you for at least trying to ask because John has been wondering for years without uttering a word out of embarrassment. No. I am most certainly not a virgin."

John and Mary laughed. "No hard feelings, mate. We were only wondering, that's all." Mary winked at him playfully. "Niiiice, I can't wait to hear from Molly how exactly experienced are you..."

She and John laughed out loud when they saw him blush. "Oh, Sherlock, do relax! We're only kidding!"

Sherlock smiled. He nodded and walked towards the door. Johns grip on his upper arm stopped him. He turned around and saw his friend's smiling face.

"Look, Sherlock. I know you. You want to be with her, but you're worried you are not actually good enough. I just wanted to say... Don't do it. Don't back away. She loves you. She at least deserves a chance to partake in the decision."

Sherlock nodded and left.

* * *

><p>When he got home, it was around half past nine. Molly was curled up on the sofa with a book in her lap and a glass of wine in her hand. She smiled at him. He took off his Belstaff and slowly walked towards her. He sat down beside her and rested his elbows on his knees.<p>

"Molly." His voice was silent. She put away her book and wine. They were sitting in silence for minutes. It was obvious that Sherlock was on the verge of telling her something, but not really sure if he should. She gently grabbed his shoulder.

"Sherlock? What happened?"

He looked her in the eyes and she lightly gasped.

"Molly, I..." He sighed. "I... We need to talk." Molly's eyes widened with fear. Why would Sherlock hesitate so much? Something must have happened. Something horrible.

He took her hands in his own. "Molly, you don't have to worry. Nothing happened."

"Oh..." She let out a deep breath. Her heart was racing and her chest ached. "Oh, Sherlock. I... I thought..."

"No, no. I am sorry. Please, forgive me." He pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her. Molly sighed and rested her head in the crook of his neck. A few tears escaped her eyes. She was shaking. "I am so sorry for frightening you. I should have thought of it before."

"N-No, Sherlock. No. I'm sorry. For... for overreacting, that's umm...that's all." She pulled back a bit, wiping her eyes. "I feel like a sitting duck, just waiting for something to happen. And I... I know how it must be for you, Sherlock. You are always two steps ahead of the rest of us, but now you don't even know who you're dealing with. I mean, you know, but...Ugh...It must be hard to calculate someone's moves and think ahead when you don't have much to go on." She smiled.

Sherlock smiled back, still holding her. "You can always see me, Molly."

She smiled and looked down, she couldn't bear the intensity of his gaze. She felt his fingers softly putting a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. He lifted her chin up and kissed her.

Oh, how good it was to feel her again. He deepened the kiss and almost lost control when he heard Molly's soft moan. She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer. His hand connected with her bare waist and trailed its way under her sweater. The skin on her back burned. Their need for oxygen parted them for a short moment. Molly was breathing heavily. She rested her forehead on his.

"Sherlock." She looked him in the eyes and saw them black with desire. She gasped. "Sherlock, what..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady his breath and failing. He swallowed.

"Molly." his voice was hoarse. "Molly. I... I..." He couldn't tell her. He could not voice the words. he couldn't tell her he loved her because there would be no going back. It would be too real. Irrevocable.

"Molly." He whispered, his eyes still closed. "You can always see me. Please... Please, see me now."

He looked her in the eyes, caressing her cheek. Molly gazed into his blackened eyes and felt no more doubt. There was only one logical explanation of all the facts. But she was afraid to voice it even though she knew it was true. Sherlock Holmes was deeply in love with her. She could see it clearly. She ran a thumb along his lower lip, her finger slightly trembling.

"Sherlock... You... You love me?" Her voice was barely audible, as if she were afraid he would laugh at her.

He closed his eyes and gave her a small nod. She gasped, tears welling in her eyes. She pulled him back and crashed her lips against his. "I love you. Oh, I love you so much, Sherlock..." She panted between kisses.

His hands were working their way up her body, pulling her sweater over her head. He pulled her onto his lap, her legs locking around his waist. She started working on his buttons, tearing away most of them as he was kissing her vigorously. He opened the clasp of her lacy white bra with one hand and tossed the offending item to the floor. Her breasts were small, but firm. He took her nipple into his mouth, gently sucking it, extracting a loud moan from her. She grabbed his hair and kissed him. She could feel how hard he was. When he slipped a hand into her yoga pants and caressed her through her knickers, she moaned loudly and pressed herself firmly against him. He flipped her on her back, positioning himself above her.

He pulled off her pants, leaving her only in her white knickers. He kissed her lips gently, but passionately while his hands caressed her body. She eased the ruined shirt off his shoulders and exposed his beautifully toned torso. She ran her hand along his tensed muscles.

She just started working on his belt when the loud sound of an explosion snapped them out of it. The whole building trembled from the ferocity of the blast. Molly screamed and covered her ears. Sherlock lowered himself on top of her, shielding her from glass shards that were flying across the apartment. He felt a couple of them tearing the bare skin on his back. While the sharp pain was spreading through his body, one thought came to his mind.

_Professor Moriarty has made a move._

_**AN:** Thank you for the reviews! _


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

When the ground finally stopped shaking, Sherlock looked at Molly. She was terrified, her whole body was trembling, but she was not physically harmed. His nose was bleeding again, he had stirred the old wound when he had slammed his head on the armrest while shielding her body. Sharp pain was spreading through his back, but the wounds were not deep. Barely scratches considering what he had gone through in the past. He slowly removed his body from hers, gently pulling her up.

"Molly, are you alright?" She was shaking violently, but she nodded. He fetched her discarded sweater and pulled it over her head. He gently wrapped his arms around her shoulders, soothing her, but she pulled him closer and threw her arms around his back. When her hands connected with his slashed skin, his sudden intake of air warned her that he was in pain. Molly's eyes widened with shock when she retreated her hands and took notice of the warm blood on them. She jumped to her feet and examined his back, then gasped and brought her hands over her mouth.

"Sh-Sherlock..." He was bleeding heavily, but the wounds were neither deep nor dangerous. It were the old scars that terrified her. The skin of his back was literally ripped apart at one point by what Molly could safely assert was a whip. There was a scar that spreading right through his left latissimus dorsi. It was most certainly made by a machete and the wound had been deep. Tears were beginning to well in her eyes. At some point in the past, Sherlock Holmes was physically tortured.

She carefully ran to her room through the glass shards and fetched her medical kit. She ran into a disheveled Mrs Hudson on the stairs. She hugged the older lady and reassured her that they were alive and alright. Mrs Hudson took notice of Sherlock's bloody back and gasped, but Molly explained there was no need to worry. She gave Mrs Hudson a task of contacting their friends and the older lady was happy to oblige and busy herself with something useful.

With tears in her eyes Molly cleaned his fresh wounds. Only one of them needed stitches. She wordlessly assessed her utensils and began stitching. Sherlock was silent. She dressed his wounds and kissed the back of his neck. He turned his head towards her and she cupped his cheek.

She wordlessly repositioned herself in front of him and started removing bloody patches from his nose. It really hurt, but he just closed his eyes and let her do her work. The new hit didn't do much damage. His broken nose was healing nicely. She fixed the new patches and plasters in their place and smiled. Sherlock opened his eyes and saw her smiling face.

"You never cease to amaze me, Molly Hooper." His voice was silent.

Molly picked up her yoga-pants, but they were full of glass. She wordlessly went back to her room and found a comfortable pair of sweatpants. Her heart was racing. She took a deep breath and returned to the living-room.

The broken glass came from the both windows and it was covering most of the living-room floor. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Molly started cleaning the glass, expecting a whole lot of people coming over in a while. Sherlock re-emerged from his bedroom, wearing only a dark-red dressing gown over his trousers. He took in the sight before him. He came over to Molly and gently grabbed her wrist. He pulled her closer and placed his lips on hers. The kiss was gentle but passionate.

"Molly. I am so glad you are unharmed." He whispered.

She gently pecked his lips and whispered. "Thank you for protecting me, Sherlock."

They heard footsteps on the stairs and Sherlock released her. She returned to cleaning the glass and he leaned on the wall behind her carefully not to disturb his fresh wounds. Lestrade and John practically ran in.

"Sherlock! Molly! Are you alright?" Lestrade was breathing heavily.

"Why are you just standing there? You should help her, you bloody git!" John said nervously.

Molly smiled at him. "No, John. It's okay. Sherlock was wounded." Their eyes widened.

"Oh, it's nothing serious. Just a couple of flesh wounds..." Sherlock reassured them. His expression changed, the mask returning to its place. "Where?" His question was directed at Lestrade.

"Further down the street. Residential buildings."

"Casualties?"

Lestrade sighed. "Still don't know. One's blown to bits. They're putting the fire out in the building next to it. Another one burned."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, this is it. It is him. Close enough but still enough far away."

"You really think it's Moriarty? For all we know it could be an accident." Lestrade countered.

"No, Lestrade. It's him. I have to go to the crime scene." He waltzed towards his bedroom.

"Sherlock, stop!" Lestrade yelled after him. "We can't go yet, not for another hour or so! They have to secure the crime scene first!"

Sherlock just waved his hand and closed the door behind him.

At the same time, Molly was finished with cleaning the floor. It was far from perfect, but at least they could safely walk across the living-room without sustaining injuries.

Sherlock returned to the living-room fully dressed just as Mycroft was entering the apartment. He nodded towards his younger brother. "Brother mine, it seems we have a problem."

Sherlock answered mockingly. "Oh, do elaborate, brother mine. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It seems our mutual friend has made a move. You must have heard some of it." He nodded towards the shattered window. I have been informed that the twelve residents were at home when the building exploded."

"Wait a minute, we haven't been granted access to the crime-scene yet, how could you..." Mycroft's gaze shut him up.

"Detective Inspector, this whole street has been under close surveillance ever since James Moriarty appeared on the screen a few days ago." He nodded towards the window. "This blast only occurred because someone had planned it ahead even before Sherlock returned from his short exile." He sighed. "There was no way anybody could have gotten into that building, certainly not carrying explosive."

"So, it was planned ahead." Sherlock said silently. "I have to go to the crime scene. He left a message, a clue. I am sure of it."

Lestrade nodded. Mycroft turned towards him. "I assume my brother will be granted complete access to the crime scene." Lestrade nodded again.

"Alright. I am glad you are still in one piece, for now, brother dear." He nodded towards Sherlock. "Detective Inspector. Dr Watson. Dr Hooper." He left the apartment.

They remained in complete silence. Lestrade was the first one to voice his thoughts. "So... twelve casualties?" Sherlock gave him a short nod. "And he did it, presuming it really was him, just to send a message to you?" Sherlock nodded wordlessly again. "Bloody hell." Lestrade muttered under breath.

"There will be more, Lestrade. This is just the beginning. I honestly doubt those people were connected to him in any kind of way. I have to go to the crime scene and see what he left for me."

* * *

><p>They left and Molly remained alone in the apartment. The fear finally hit her with full force. She slumped on the sofa and brought her knees to her chest. She took a few deep breaths trying to calm herself down. Really, the whole situation was to be expected, but still... twelve people died. Twelve people that probably had no connection to the case. Moriarty murdered them, blew them to pieces, just to spite Sherlock. Their lives meant nothing, they were just collateral damage in the great game. She felt like she was going to be sick.<p>

She wondered what was going on in Sherlock's mind. She knew he was terribly angry and frustrated because there was no way for him to prevent the explosion. Moriarty was playing the game and winning at the moment. Sherlock would be beating himself up for all of it. He would neither sleep nor eat for days trying to solve whatever riddle that sick bastard left him somewhere on the crime scene. Molly's heart ached for him because she had a strong feeling that soon the whole of England would become a crime scene.

Was it really only an hour before when they had been kissing and... _Oh, god_... Molly started remembering the events the blast kicked out of her mind. _He loves me. He really loves me_... A small smile appeared on her lips, but she immediately gasped, shocked with her own behaviour. _People have died, for god's sake!_

She made an effort to lift herself from the sofa. Her body felt like it was made of lead. She had to visit Mrs Hudson to check on her. The older lady must have been shaken by the events.

* * *

><p>Sherlock, John and Lestrade arrived at the crime scene. Half of the street was covered in debris. The air was filled with smoke and a heavy smell of scorching. The building was blown to pieces, not a single wall remained. The blast was so strong it shattered the windows on almost all the buildings in Baker Street and, Sherlock could only conclude, the neighbouring two streets. The two buildings directly surrounding the pile of debris were nearly as damaged. Ambulance vehicles were parked in front of them, taking care of the wounded and taking away the dead.<p>

Sirens, yelling and cries of children filled the air around Sherlock while he was slowly walking over to the remainder of the building. Nothing truly was left. The explosive was placed on the inside, on the ground floor, almost in the middle of the apartment. The strength of the blast kicked the debris almost entirely away to the street and behind the buildings. He closed his eyes as the heavy scent of scorched meat reached his nostrils. At least twelve people died. At least as many were severely wounded.

Sherlock deduced Moriarty had placed the explosive more than a month ago, but honestly, it could have been there for years. His actions shone a light on Sherlock's thoughts, giving him clues other people would certainly miss. He needed to get in touch with his Homeless Network, but he had deduced before that they would need at least a day to acquire the needed information.

The Baker Street as Sherlock Holmes knew it was in ruins. Windows were shattered, cars were destroyed, every step was covered in dust and debris. Ground and the remains were soaked with dirty water. Sherlock turned his gaze to the ground in front of his own feet. A dirty fluffy purple teddy-bear, missing the lower part of its body, was fuming. That sight stirred something in him and he started moving.

"Lestrade! John! We need to get in! Ground floor, now!"

But when he turned around, he saw them standing frozen in their spots, their eyes wide with fear and shock. John's eyes were filled with tears, his jaw shut tight and his hands clenched into fists as if he was trying very hard not to break down. Lestrade was just standing there, taking his surroundings in and not liking what he saw.

Sherlock turned around and stood in front of them.

"Hey! Ground floor! Now!"

They snapped out of it and paced behind him to the front of the building. Mycroft's agents were there, holding everyone else at bay, obviously waiting for Sherlock. The famous detective had absolute priority in anything concerning Moriarty, his brother assured that. He had access even before the New Scotland Yard. And nobody was complaining because they knew he was the only one that could actually stop James Moriarty, even this new one.

Lestrade and John were slowly following Sherlock five steps behind him as he walked and observed.

They were walking through piles and piles of bricks, here and there a blackened part of furniture would appear. They stopped in their tracks as they reached a pile of bricks partly covering a burned bloody hand. Lestrade whistled and two government agents accompanied by the paramedics arrived.

Sherlock continued. He walked over the wet piles of bricks and pieces of blackened furniture. Minutes later he was at the centre of the explosion. The shock-wave assured that part of the ground was cleared of debris. Water was slowly dripping from the broken pipe that had pierced through the remainder of the wall. Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly inhaled, taking in the scent of the crime scene.

The explosive, a large amount of explosive, was placed in some kind of an old piece of furniture, most likely an old closet that was barely used. It was PE-4, otherwise known as C-4, a kind of explosive that would not react to any kind of physical shock. It could only be detonated remotely, by a manual detonator. The explosion was powerful, but carefully planned and controlled.

It was a four apartment building. At the moment of the explosion, the landlord and his wife were in their flat. The bomb was situated in the hall next to their bedroom. _Killed instantly._

The first floor was divided into two separate flats. A young married couple in one, a single mother and her two children in the other. _Killed instantly_.

The second and final floor was a home to a young married couple and their child. _Killed instantly_.

The building on the left was nearly as damaged. The top floor was mainly burned, the first and ground floor unrecognizable. Old landlady's bedroom was on the side of the aimed building. _Killed instantly._ The tenant on the second floor apartment didn't have time to escape the fire and smoke - _died slowly and painfully_. The other flats were either uninhibited or empty at the moment.

The building on the other side sustained less damage from the explosion itself, but was nearly completely burned. Everyone escaped death for the time being, but were mostly in intensive care units in St. Bart's, fighting for lives due to damage from smoke and fire.

Even more people were seriously wounded because of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

_Why have you done this? _He opened his eyes and scanned the ruins around him_. What have you left for me?_

Sherlock was still standing at the same spot while the government crews cleared the ground around him. He knew Moriarty had left some kind of an obvious clue somewhere on the ground floor. Why? Just to fool with him, probably.

This was only a warning. A warning one man with a vast criminal network standing behind him was giving to the other that tried to stop him.

_Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. _

He closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. Sherlock Holmes was a man with a lot of blood on his hands. While being _dead, _he had directly killed 27 of Moriarty's lieutenants. Nearly twice as many smaller criminals from the network. Rescuing The Woman from Karachi smeared his hands with the blood of seven more men, all terrorists. Charles Augustus Magnussen was the last life he took.

The only reason he had never talked to his friends about dismantling Moriarty's network was because he had been afraid of their disappointment. He had never regretted or second-guessed any of his actions from that time. James Moriarty had surrounded himself with murderers, rapists, terrorists and drug dealers. Those people needed to be eliminated and Sherlock was the blunt instrument of justice, a dragon slayer. But now, at that point, Sherlock Holmes was disappointed in himself. He hadn't seen the bigger scheme. He had known for a long time something was missed, there was always something, after all... But he was supposed to be the one outsmarting everyone else. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes felt he had been outsmarted.

John's grip on his shoulder brought him back to presence. The crews had cleared most of the burned bricks from the ground. In the far corner of the hall, not in the direct line of the shock-wave, was a single black box, the kind that was used in airplanes to store the vital information in case of a crash. Only this box didn't contain various machines. It contained only a letter in an even smaller box, to ensure its survival. It had "Sherlock Holmes" written on it.

"Not this again." John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock slowly examined the envelope and opened it. It contained a single piece of paper, a letter. Sherlock scanned it, his face not showing any kind of emotion for he knew they were being watched. He slid the piece of paper into the pocket and wordlessly walked away towards the street.

John and Lestrade had exchanged a quick glance before John rushed after Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" He reached him but the detective kept on walking. "What does it say?"

Sherlock stopped and turned towards him. His eyes were burning with determination. "This is only the beginning, John." His voice was silent, but incredibly fierce. John's blood turned to ice. His friend's words moved him more than the explosion itself.

Sherlock gathered Mycroft's agents around himself and started shouting orders. Everything that was neither brick nor furniture would be turned over to New Scotland Yard for forensic examination which would be led by Philip Anderson. (Lestrade's eyes were wide with shock and his lips wordlessly repeated "Anderson"). Every found body or body part would be taken to St. Bart's and await there for Dr Hooper. Sherlock was still shouting out orders when John took his mobile out of his pocket. He had five missed calls from his wife. He silently walked away from the fuss and called her.

"_John! John, oh thank god! I was starting to worry..."_

"Hey! Hey! Calm down, it's okay. I've been busy, we're at the crime scene." There was a moment of silence. "Oh, Mary... I can't describe this... It's..." John swallowed. "It's like Afghanistan all over again. Even worse..."

"_Oh, John! Has... Has anyone been killed?"_

"Twelve. Twelve and still counting. At least twenty others were injured, five are in critical condition."

He would not mention the children. He would not mention the three dead children. A boy, 5. A girl, 8. A boy, 12. His pregnant wife did not need to know about them. At least not yet. Not before reporters get their hands on the story...

"_John, how's he?"_

"He's holding up, Mary, but... I don't think he's okay. He'll blame himself..."

"_I know. I understand him, you know..." _Mary sighed. _"Is Molly there with you?"_

"No, she stayed at 221B with Mrs Hudson."

"_I should come over..."_

"No! No, you stay at home!" He sighed. "I'll be over shortly." He sent Mary his love.

Sherlock was wordlessly watching the remains, his expression unreadable. All John could deduce was his evident determination.

"Sherlock? What the hell is going on?"

His friend met his gaze and nodded towards their side of Baker Street. They slowly walked towards 221B. Molly and Mrs Hudson were waiting for them in the lobby. They gasped when they entered, making the men realize they were covered in dust and dirt from the crime scene. The patch on Sherlock's nose was particularly dirty and Molly wanted to clean his wound to prevent some kind of an infection. Sherlock nodded, deducing her thoughts and they went to the flat upstairs, Mrs Hudson putting the kettle on immediately.

Sherlock and John took their usual places in their respective chairs. Molly approached Sherlock with her medical kit and sat on the armrest. His eyes met hers and she began working on his wound. He continued observing her determined expression that usually took over when she was consumed by work. Her eyes were slightly squinted and her cheeks blushed. The disinfectant burned his wound, but he didn't even wince. He hadn't realized before Molly shifted that his hand had been gently placed at the small of her back, steadying her on the armrest. Physical contact with her felt so natural. She cleared his wound and put a light patch over it. Her fingers lightly traced his cheekbone and she smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

All the while John Watson was sitting in his chair opposing them, a small smile on his lips. _Mary will be over the moon!_

Sherlock met his gaze and released Molly. She suddenly remembered they were being watched and walked out with her medical kit and a small smile on her lips.

Mrs Hudson brought tea and biscuits and, to everyone's surprise, Sherlock grabbed a cup.

"The bodies are being transported at the moment. There will be a couple more hours before the remains are transported to the Scotland Yard. There are thirteen bodies to be examined."

John closed his eyes. "Thirteen?"

Sherlock met his gaze and answered coldly. "The man from the car. 90% of his body was burnt. It was highly unlikely he would survive anyway."

John sighed knowing very well that his friend's coldness was just a part of his act. Still, it was hard not to scream vicious things at him sometimes.

Molly returned, dressed in a loose sweater and a pair of jeans, her hair gathered in a ponytail. "I guess you'll want me in the morgue for this..."

Sherlock looked at her, his expression and voice softer. "Yes, Molly. There are thirteen bodies in an immediate need of an autopsy."

Molly sighed, but smiled reassuringly. "A long night then, I guess."

He nodded. "We'll be on our way in fifteen minutes. I have to clean up first."

"I'll go home and check on Mary. I could give you a ride, Molly." John said.

"Thank you." Molly smiled.

Sherlock nodded and wordlessly walked to the bathroom.

* * *

><p>Molly and John spent almost the entire ride in silence. Finally John gathered the courage to ask.<p>

"So... the two of you..."

Molly's blushed cheeks and barely suppressed smile gave him all the answers he needed.

"I'm happy for you, Molly." He smiled. "Despite the current situation, you will be good together. I already know you have a good influence on him."

Molly looked at him and smiled sadly. "I just... I just hope he... won't have any second thoughts after tonight..."

John understood her worries perfectly. It was alike Sherlock to back away from emotion when under pressure. "Molly... You don't have to worry." He hesitated for a moment. "He... He told me himself he was not able to stay away from you anymore. It's just... You know him. He might back away a little because he thinks you'd be in bigger danger if the two of you start something now..."

She remained silent. John continued. "He'll probably be all cold and uncaring and whatnot. Or maybe he won't. I don't know. Just... Be there for him. It's a lot to ask after everything he's done to you, but..."

"But I love him, John. And he loves me." Molly answered silently.

John almost hit the car in front of them. "What?! He told you that?! He actually told you?!" He laughed. "That bloody git, didn't think he had it in him!"

It extracted a smile from Molly. "He... He assured me of it."

"Did the two of you actually _do_ it?"

"John!" Her cheeks were red. "N-No..."

John laughed. Their car stopped in front of St. Bart's. "You know, every time I laugh, I mentally have to hit myself with a fist. Thirteen people have died and maybe more will and here I am - laughing. But I'm happy for my friend. And for you, dear Molly. You've been through hell and back with him, you deserve happiness. I just hope he won't screw this up." He gently squeezed her shoulder.

She smiled sadly. "I feel the same. I know I shouldn't be happy. I've thirteen bodies waiting in the morgue. But thank you, John. It means a lot to me. Give my love to Mary."

She exited the car and walked towards the hospital. She lingered on the entrance, inhaling deeply. _This is going to be a long, excruciating night._

* * *

><p>Sherlock stepped into the shower, ignoring the sharp pain on his back. When the hot water met his fresh wounds, it felt like his skin was being ripped to shreds. But the pain was awakening, purifying. His mind was sharp and quick in analyzing and connecting various pieces of evidence. The files were scattered all across his Mind Palace, but he was reorganizing them, making place for more. Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and ready. His wounds were unprofessionally covered in bandages, but at least the bleeding had stopped. He wrapped his body in his signature Belstaff that felt like an armour. In the inner pocket was Moriarty's letter, weighing at least a ton.<p>

He inhaled and reopened it.

"_The game is on, but The Professor is making the rules."_

There it was. Another warning. But he had promised not to give him anymore of those. The explosion. There was more to it than met the eye. There were five possible theories. He shook his head. _No. Four possible theories. _He wrapped his coat tighter around himself and stepped into the cold night.

**AN:** Again, thank you for the reviews! Feel free to comment more!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The scorched remains still smelled of fire. Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and carefully examined each and every piece of evidence brought from the explosion site. Philip Anderson was standing a few feet away from him, silently observing the consulting detective's investigation. Sgt Sally Donovan and DI Greg Lestrade were standing on the other side of the glass, watching the sight in front of them in pure awe. As soon as Sherlock came into the forensics unit, he immediately asked for Anderson and the two of them had been silently observing evidence ever since.

"Holy bloody fuck, I'll never get used to this." Lestrade nodded towards them. Sally's eyes were wide and she nodded back. "Yeah, he's not trying to rip Philip's throat out..."

The two Scotland Yard's detectives moved to their respective desks a while later. Sherlock and Anderson have remained in the forensics for another couple of hours.

Sherlock was starting to get frustrated. He had expected he would find something, anything actually. But except for the letter, Moriarty hadn't left him anything to go on with.

_What are the new rules? _He walked towards the wall and leaned against it, stapling his fingers under his chin. He quietly observed all the evidence as a whole. There were thousands of pieces of scorched material. Most of it were pieces of building material and burnt furniture. Actually, almost everything that wasn't a brick was brought into forensics for examination. At the beginning, Sherlock thought Moriarty had left him a hidden clue. But in reality, there was not much to go on. _There has to be something. _He knew that was only a start. He had experience with James Moriarty and his mind-games. But again, this wasn't the original James Moriarty. Or... Sherlock's eyes widened.

_Or is it?_

Sherlock couldn't see the forensics lab in front of his eyes anymore. His mind was filled with numbers and probability-graphs, his hard-drive working at full speed. How, how indeed would it be impossible that he hadn't met Professor Moriarty before? Maybe the brothers operated together, maybe even...

He gasped_. Yes, yes of course. Stupid, stupid, STUPID._

To hell with the four possible theories, there was a new one that was even more probable forming in his mind.

He left Anderson in charge of the further examination and strode out. The feeling of giving orders in New Scotland Yard was satisfying. If they had taken his word as gospel before, they wouldn't have had so many unsolved cases.

Lestrade caught him as soon as he reached the front door. "Sherlock! What the... Where are you going?" He took a few deep breaths. Sherlock realized the DI had been running after him throughout the Yard. "Have you found anything?"

"Yes and no, Graham." He answered. Lestrade rolled his eyes even though he knew Sherlock was doing it on purpose. "Greg."

"Yes, Greg. Anderson will lead the detailed examination of the remains, although I highly doubt they will be able to find anything. As usual. But I need detailed background on every dead person. Especially the landlord. Bring the files by this evening."

"Why the landlord? I thought the victims were random as you said..."

"They are not. At least not all of them are. Just do as I said, Lestrade." He turned around and started opening the door. "Please" he added.

Lestrade nodded, still a bit annoyed that Sherlock was simply ordering him around. "Where are you going?"

"Bart's." And with that, the consulting detective was gone. Lestrade simply shook his head and returned to his office, grabbing a coffee on the way. _This is going to be a long day..._

* * *

><p>Molly was finishing her fifth autopsy when she felt fatigue taking over her. She had to sit down for a moment and rest. Lucy, the new intern, was on her well deserved lunch break. The two of them had been working all day without a pause. She took a deep breath and massaged her temple. The autopsies haven't been difficult, there wasn't much left anyway. The landlord and his wife, a Mr and Mrs Colton, were dead before even realizing what was happening. The married couple living directly above them shared the same fate. She was just sewing up the young single-mother, Alice Smithson, when she realized the pending bodies were those of her children. Molly felt sick. She had done autopsies on children before, too many of them actually, but nothing could ever prepare a person for something like that. Innocent children killed in their sleep by a psychopathic maniac. She shook her head and took a deep breath. <em>They need me<em>. She slowly got up and returned to the slab with the deceased woman. _Sherlock needs me_.

Lucy returned with a fresh cup of coffee. "Dr Hooper, I think you need one of these." There was a sad smile on her face. Molly took the cup gratefully.

After a while, the fifth autopsy was finished. Molly was just finishing her notes when the door opened. He was standing there, his cheeks a bit pink from the cold, his hair in a classy mess of curls and his eyes piercing her soul. An involuntary smile appeared on her lips. Without breaking their eye-contact, Sherlock waltzed towards her and brought his lips to hers. She lost herself in the passion he poured into the kiss, the soft touch of his still gloved hands on her cheeks. As their lips parted, the love visible in his emerald eyes lit her blood on fire.

"Molly." His voice was barely above whisper. "I..."

They suddenly realized they were in the morgue, in the presence of a very shocked intern. Lucy's eyes were wide with shock. "Dr... Dr Hooper, I... I'll wait outside." She cleared her throat and exited the room, almost knocking over a set of scalpels. Molly chuckled. He released her and she almost fell, still overwhelmed with emotion.

"You are tired." It was an observation, not a question.

"Yes... But Lucy's been helping me, she's great... Well, at least until you managed to scare her away." She said with a small smile.

"Dr Hooper, it is a known fact that you have been in love with me for quite a lot of time actually." He purred. "The truth is that the staff, your young intern included, believe you have terminated your engagement because of me, but that I will never be able return your feelings because I am a machine. I suppose the word of our encounter in the morgue this very moment will be spreading through St. Bart's Hospital at the speed of sound." Corner of his lips twitched upwards.

Molly resisted the urge to kiss him again. After all, they had to work. Like countless times before, Sherlock read her mind and took his coat off. Molly silently prepared herself for what was ahead of her.

Two autopsies of children, small children. She took a deep silent breath and started. The boy was five years old and his sister eight, their small fragile bodies ruined with wounds consistent with explosion. Their bodies were completely broken, bones crushed, muscles torn. The blunt force trauma from the initial shock-wave threw them out of their beds and killed them before they even woke up. It should have been easier for her, knowing that they hadn't suffered. But they were children and they were not supposed to be dead. They were supposed to be tucked in their beds, sleeping soundly without a single worry on their minds.

She felt his hands holding her upper arms. She realized she had been clenching the slab with so much force that her knuckles turned white. He steadied her and allowed her to regain composure. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. The warmth was slowly spreading through her numb limbs. "Sherlock, they were so small..." Her voice was a pained whisper.

"I know." His lips gently touched the back of her head. They remained in silence for a few minutes. "I will catch him, Molly." He gasped. "I promise, I will catch him."

Molly turned around and faced him. He allowed her to see the wide array of emotions in his eyes before masking them again. She nodded, understanding that she had to be strong and perform admirably because that was what he needed. And there was nothing more important than Sherlock winning the game against Moriarty once and for all.

Lucy returned shortly with Mike Stamford who would take over Molly's work at the end of her shift. But she decided to remain throughout the rest of the autopsies, observing and taking notes. Sherlock disappeared a short while after Mike and Lucy came in. He couldn't help but chuckle at Mike's mortified face expression after he kissed Molly on the leave.

Sherlock hailed a black cab. On the ride throughout the City of Westminster, towards Baker Street, he wondered when would Moriarty strike again. Moreover, he wondered where. How. His thoughts were in dire need of reorganization.

A young man in his twenties was standing in front of 221B. His face was partly covered by a hoodie and a fully grown beard, but Bill Wiggins was still quite recognizable to his employer. Sherlock walked pass him without a word, knowing better than to endanger his protégée. He knew the information was acquired, just as he asked. The stack of papers and photographs was waiting on his desk. Wiggins coordinated the flow of information through the Homeless Network and delivered the hard data to the boss. Sherlock inspected the material with a satisfied smile on his face. _Yes, indeed_.

* * *

><p>It was evening already when Molly reached Baker Street. A car had been waiting for her outside the hospital, one of Mycroft's men. She entered the flat and found Sherlock in his leather chair, deep in the Mind Palace. The shattered windows were replaced. Probably Mycroft's men again. The wall above the sofa was covered in maps, photographs and pieces of paper. The pins were connected by different colours of thread. But there was more to come. Soon after she took her coat off, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Lestrade and John entered the flat carrying boxes of files. Sherlock jumped onto his feet.<p>

"Molly. John. Lestrade." They said their silent hellos and started taking out the files. Sherlock wordlessly scanned every page of every file on the victims. After that, he took Molly's notes and examined the post-mortems. At some point, Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray containing tea and biscuits.

A couple of hours passed in silence while Sherlock was studying the lives and deaths of the victims. He would wordlessly get up and pin a photograph or a sheet of paper to the wall from time to time, all the while murmuring voiceless words. Molly, Greg and John examined the files too, not wanting to disturb the consulting detective in any way. Only when he slumped onto his chair and mentally vacated the premises of 221B Baker Street did John utter his first words upon arriving to the flat.

"Hey, Molly. How's it been?"

Molly sighed. "Overwhelming. Thirteen autopsies, I did seven myself."

John nodded. "How's it been at Scotland Yard?"

Lestrade answered. "A mess. Everyone's out of their bloody minds. They're partially expecting him to solve the thing overnight."

They all wordlessly aimed their gazes to the consulting detective in his chair. He was silently staring at something that was not present. His lips were moving fast, forming simple words that helped him organize the information. Mnemonic techniques were really not that complicated, but most of the people could not organize their acquired knowledge so methodically. Sherlock whizzed through stacks and stacks of files in his mind, adding additional proves to his theory.

Yes, James Moriarty and James Moriarty, the twin brothers, did not function as individuals. They were together in everything, planning and executing. One was ready to take over if the other falls. James Moriarty killed himself on top of that blasted roof three years ago and James Moriarty took over as if nothing had happened. They were like a one person, one balancing out the other. With the death of Jim Moriarty, Professor Moriarty left their network to die, already assessing new associates under pretence of death, being invisible to the rest of the world, especially to Sherlock. He acted out assuming Sherlock would not doubt his death if the network fell without higher resistance. He could have organized his former lieutenants, they could have survived, the network could have still existed, but it would not suit the greater, more elaborate game. While Sherlock Holmes had been dismantling Moriarty's network, Moriarty himself had built a new one. A better one. It consisted of less petty criminals, but the game itself was more elaborate.

James Moriarty did not need the pretence of the Consulting Criminal anymore. He did not need powerful lieutenants that were running their own businesses on the side. He was handling things himself now.

So... the bombing. The building itself was not important for any specific reason than being in Baker Street. But the tenants were interesting. The old landlord and his wife especially so. The landlord, a Mr Colton, was a retired accountant. He married his wife twenty years ago, two days after his fortieth birthday. But before that it seemed as if the man had never existed. There were no records on him whatsoever. _Interesting... _So, the landlord might have been connected to the network in some way, but why did it matter? It seems he retired three years ago, on _the day_ corresponding Sherlock's death. _Significance_? Sherlock shook his head. He was not a major part of the network, otherwise he would have been killed off years ago. Either by Sherlock and MI5 or by Moriarty himself. Why now? _Coincidence? The Universe vas rarely so lazy.._.

He leapt onto his feet and started pacing across the living room, his hands joined on his back. The Homeless Network acquired dome additional information on the movements of some people. Amongst others, Irene Adler was back in London, but she was lying low. For now, at least. He would have to carefully calculate if she was anyhow connected to Moriarty this time. If not, he could use her and her resources. She did owe him, after all.

So, back to the landlord. Additional data was needed. He took out his mobile phone and sent a message to Mycroft.

_Henry Colton. The landlord. Complete background check. _–SH

Merely five minutes afterwards his phone buzzed. The incoming message contained a file. So, the landlord was connected to Moriarty after all. He was handling the finances of the... Sherlock gulped...Serbian division. They were all either dead or imprisoned, mostly dead, but memories of torture could not vacate Sherlock's mind, no matter how hard he tried to delete them. _Why now_? The Serbian division was the last to fall, right before Sebastian Moran. If the accountant knew anything of importance, Moriarty would kill him immediately. This was not tying one's loose ends, it was a message. A message where to look.

_Serbian division. Survivors/signs of renewed activity. -_SH

_Survivors negative. MI6 not in the area_. –MH

_Well check it out, brother dear_. –SH

_Check is go. Tomorrow morning is the best I can do._ –MH

With that, Sherlock stepped over the table and onto the sofa. He started reorganizing pictures and papers, connecting new dots on the map and writing new pieces of information with a black marker. When he was finished, the photographs, papers and lines of thread were pointing to one piece of paper in the middle. SERBIA. What was going on in Serbia? Moriarty created and ran a pretty strong division in rural Serbia, far away from prying eyes, but what was its purpose? Sherlock, with the help from MI6, tracked the division down by the connection to Moriarty, but they were never able to decipher their true purpose. It did not matter at the moment, their pure motivation was erasing all traces of James Moriarty from the world of living.

What were they dealing with? Drugs? No, the Russian cartel had that covered. Human trafficking? Maybe. Sherlock's eyes slightly widened. Weapons? Could it really be that simple? Was the explosion a mere demonstration?

_But why_? The question was bugging him. _Why? Am I missing something? There's always something._

He slumped into his chair, chin resting on the tips of his fingers.

_What do you want me to see?_

He had played a game of sorts with Moriarty before. The Great Game. Sherlock mentally snorted. John and his blasted blog, if that were a great game, what the bloody hell would the name of this one be?

There was really nothing to do. Nothing to go on. He had to find out what had been the purpose of Serbian division and if it's still running. Moriarty was pointing him towards it for a reason.

His Mind Palace was cold. He could not concentrate. A sudden realization hit him hard. Of course. The Mind Palace did not change. It was like it always had been. A cold place. Without emotion, without warmth. He had kept sentiment locked in a special cellar. But a certain pathologist was responsible for creating warmth in a place that should have remained cold. She was responsible for the quickened beating of a heart he was not supposed to have. She changed the Mind Palace forever, and with it his ability to function. The only thing that was different in it from the preceding days was her absence. Sherlock turned around, frantically looking for her. He was running throughout the Palace, nearing her room, but the door was locked. The warmth usually emitting from the whole wing was now replaced by a coldness that pierced Sherlock's heart. He shattered the door with his body and entered the room. He took a deep breath, the cold icy air burning his lungs. Warm colours and ridiculous patterns so typical for Molly were replaced by sterile grayness.

Sherlock felt light-headed. In the middle of the room, on what used to be Molly's comfortable sofa, was James Moriarty. He was smartly dressed in a dark gray suit, a wide smile on his lips, but his eyes were wild. He looked just like that day on the roof, before pulling a gun on himself. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles, intensifying the maddening look.

_I will burn you... I will burn... the HEART... out of you._

* * *

><p>Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes to his home, 221B. his heart was racing and he still felt light-headed. He was not sure what had happened. A panic attack? A sudden realization what he had and what he could lose? His watch showed seven o'clock in the morning. Lestrade and John were gone for hours and Molly was probably sleeping in his bed. <em>Molly<em>... He leapt onto his feet and practically ran towards his bedroom. He let out a breath he had been holding. Her sleeping form was curled in the middle of the bed.

An overwhelming mixture of happiness and terror engulfed him. She was his heart. The heart Moriarty had promised he would burn. Had he known that night on the pool? Had he known even before Sherlock knew himself? Moriarty had dated Molly only to get to him, but truth be told, he had other ways of accomplishing that. Maybe he had seen, had predicted how Sherlock would grow attached to his pathologist. _Has this been a part of his plan too_?

His eyes widened with shock. Could it... Could it be true? Could have Moriarty counted on this? If it were true, he would have to terminate their relationship immediately, he would have to stop endangering her even more.

Molly turned around and looked him in the eyes. She wordlessly sat up and brought her small hand to his cheek. At that moment, Sherlock knew it didn't matter. For a fragment of a second he started doubting his relationship with Molly, but it didn't matter. She was all there was, all there ever had been. He felt as if his life hadn't had a purpose before her. He was so completely and irrevocably hers and he could not and would not try to get away from it.

"Molly." He whispered. He knew she could see him, he knew she could interpret the overwhelming emotions that had engulfed him completely. But he wanted to tell her. He needed to.

"Molly, I... I love you."

The confession kicked the air out of her lungs. She knew it, of course, but she never expected to hear those words from him. They sounded unreal. Unbelievable. But the emotion in his voice alone gave her definite proof of the truthfulness of his words. His eyes spoke volumes more.

He kissed her so deeply and passionately she felt breathless. His hands were on her back, burning her skin with the intensity of emotion he poured into every touch. In a moment her night-shirt is gone and she's sitting before him in her knickers. He broke the kiss and looked her in the eyes, searching for the approval he needed. She kissed him in return, bringing her hands to his curls. He placed her on her back, tracing her jaw line and her neck with his lips. When he slowly circled her hardened nipple with his tongue, her eyes fluttered shut and she arched her back into him. His mouth was still working on her breast when she felt his thumbs on the waistband of her knickers. He slowly removed them, straightening himself up and looking at the sight of her before him. She had never felt less self-conscious than in that particular moment and the fact alone was crazy because she was lying naked in front of Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were dark with desire and he was breathing heavily. He slowly took the edges of his shirt out of his trousers and started unbuttoning it from the top. Molly's breath hitched when she gazed upon his well defined muscles. He slowly brought his lips to hers in a slow but passionate kiss and she eased the shirt off his shoulders.

Her fingers traced the lines of his rectus abdominis and she felt his gasp on her neck. He was a man not accustomed to being touched. She reached the edge of his trousers and slowly undid the buttons, then pushed them down along with his pants. He moved away while getting rid of his trousers entirely and then parted her legs with his knee. The need for her was overwhelming. He brought his lips to her neck, sucking on her pulse point, leaving a mark. Molly moaned with pleasure, pressing her body against his. He took her breast in his hand and licked the nipple before taking it in his mouth while his other hand was making its way downwards. His middle finger slowly circled her clit and her head sank deeper in the pillow. He applied more pressure eliciting a loud moan from her. He gently bit her nipple and she clenched the sheets with her fists, the combination of sensations driving her towards the edge.

"Sherlock..." She was breathless. "Oh...please..."

Their eyes met and Sherlock once again claimed her lips with a wicked smile. His eyes were completely black with desire and there was no trace of a coherent thought left in his mind. For the first time in a long while, Sherlock let the emotion reign over him entirely. He pushed inside of her in one slow stroke. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parted gasping for air but he kissed her so deeply she thought she was going to pass out. His thrusts were slow but hard. One of his hands sneaked around her back, lifting her bum to meet his thrusts. Her loud moan motivated him to quicken the pace.

"What are you thinking?" His whisper tickled the skin below her ear. She moaned loudly in return. Her nails were leaving new marks on his back, but he didn't seem to care. In fact he seemed to like it. She tugged his curls and felt the vibration of his moan from his chest before she could hear it. He pressed his forehead to hers and pushed harder into her.

"What. Are. You. Feeling." He punctuated every word with a thrust. She arched her back, pressing her body to his as she feels the burning sensation building up inside of her. Their gasping breaths were filling the air around them, their skin damp with sweat.

"I... Oh, Sherlock... I love you." Her voice broke. She was struggling to keep her eyes opened. "I am yours." Her muscles tensed like she was being hit by an electric shock. Every inch of her skin was on fire. In that moment, there was nothing else that mattered except the feeling of Sherlock inside of her, of his burning breath and touch on her skin. He held her tightly as she clenched around him, pulling him into oblivion. He came with a loud moan and her name on his lips.

She was breathing heavily, overwhelmed with emotion and still remaining sensation of a ground-shattering orgasm. She pulled him closer, easing his entire weight onto her body. Their eyes slowly met, his barely visible emerald irises looking at her like she was the only person in the world. The kiss that followed was slow and loving. He turned onto his back, pulling her to his side. His arms locked her in place. He gently kissed her forehead.

She rested her hand on his chest, kissing the edge of his pectoralis major lightly. Before sleep took over her again, she heard his whisper clearly.

"You are my heart."

**AN**: Sorry for not uploading sooner, but college duties finally caught up with me. Thank you for the reviews and feel free to write more. :)


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The feeling of her warm skin pressed against his body was almost as overwhelming as the sentiment that overtook his mind. Maybe he had been right all along, maybe sentiment was a weakness that would eventually find a way of destroying them both, but he could not and would not let go of her. She became his beacon of hope, a promise of future that no longer seemed as dark and unpredictable as it had before.

She stirred and pressed her body to his even more, he could feel her heartbeat on his own skin. Her steady breathing was tickling his neck. One of his arms was draped around her back and the other was lazily tracing various patterns on her waist. He had known he loved her even before that night, but at that moment it seemed that she became a part of him. Sherlock had never felt such strong and overwhelming emotions that threatened to shatter the world around him, to extinguish the life within him if he didn't have her by his side.

It was unrealistic, even crazy, that such a petite little woman could ever bring the great Sherlock Holmes onto his knees. But exactly that was happening. He brought his hand to her still flushed cheek and traced the skin with his knuckles. She had been there for as long as he could remember. For as long as it mattered, anyway. She started as a simple plain morgue assistant and lab technician he could easily charm and exploit. It took him a while, due to heavy influence of drugs, to realize just how smart she was. Then she became the pathologist, the only one that was willing to work with him. His pathologist. She crept upon him. She became a part of him.

He lightly kissed her forehead, what caused her to stir and open her eyes. Those beautiful chocolate orbs met his gaze and he smiled.

"Good morning." He whispered. In answer, she lovingly kissed the skin on his neck.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence.

"Sherlock..." Her voice was a whisper. "I..." She sighed. He turned his head to fully look at her and noticed a frown between her eyebrows.

"What you said last night, I...I just..." She smiled. "I just can't believe...it's true... I mean, I know how you feel about me, but hearing it from you makes me..."

"Overwhelmed. I know, Molly." He brought his lips to her hair. "It is not easy for me, dealing with sentiment. I have never expected to love or to be loved. But I meant what I said." He sighed and whispered. "You are my heart."

She shivered. That confession made her heart warm even more than those three little words spoken before. She brought her face to his and kissed him. Her fingers tangled with his curls and his traced the skin on her back, making her shiver with desire. They made love slowly and passionately. Every touch, every kiss was filled with love and emotion that overwhelmed them both.

Afterwards, while he was buttoning up his shirt and watching Molly's wet hair dancing on the bare skin of her back above the towel, he couldn't stop hearing that overly soft and sickening voice inside his head.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

* * *

><p>His gaze was fixed upon the wall above the sofa. His left hand was clutching the phone, Mycroft's voice still ringing in his head.<p>

"_Our agents heard rumours. Whispers of a renewed activity in the village. There was not much left behind, but it appears someone has been working very hard to conceal any sign of activity." _

Sherlock shook his head_. How could I be so bloody stupid_?

Mycroft informed him that MI6 acquired the information which led them to believe that Moriarty had rebuilt a part of his criminal network in the Eastern Europe. Rural Serbian village proved to be the headquarters of the smuggling network. The same one where Sherlock was captured and held. And tortured.

He couldn't believe that Mycroft hadn't kept a single agent in close proximity. The closest MI6 division was stationed in Zagreb, Croatia, keeping an eye on a terrorist cell that was allegedly hiding in northern Bosnia.

_How could I be so bloody stupid? Stupid. Stupid. STUPID!_

His phone connected with the wall producing a loud bang. _And I had thought Mycroft and his men were slightly more competent than the Scotland Yard. Idiots._

Getting angry was doing him no good. He had to concentrate and find out what exactly was going on in Serbia. Moriarty himself had pointed him in that direction for a reason. There had to be something significant. Maybe he was playing a game like his late brother, if that indeed was the dead brother playing... What was bugging Sherlock the most was that he could not decide for himself if the Moriarty he had been dealing with before the fall had been the same person all along. His expectations could not meet the reality before realizing what kind of a game exactly that mad man was playing. He was pointing him towards something that could easily lead to clues that would help Sherlock prevent his next attack. Maybe he wanted that to happen. Or maybe he was so convinced in his invincibility and superiority that he wanted to test Sherlock, to mock him and play him. To make him feel as hopeless and helpless as he was feeling at the moment.

Either way, it was working.

Sherlock's mind was on fire, he had been working at full speed all along. There was not a single variable left unaccounted for. There would be no surprises concerning the people close to him no matter what the game was. The game was on and Sherlock was making sure he would win it. But at the same time, he felt so tired. No matter how many times he mentally made sure of every single possibility, the thought of helplessness while his loved ones are being hurt physically burned him. John and Mary were as safe as they could be, both of them capable of protecting themselves and heavily guarded by Mycroft's men. Lestrade was also under guard, but Sherlock knew about the gun the Detective Inspector kept under the pillow, just to be sure. Molly and Mrs Hudson were at the safest place there was, in Baker Street with him. 221B was probably the best guarded place in the whole of Britain, along with the Buckingham Palace and Mummy's house. Mycroft would have never left that to a case.

Molly was in Bart's, pulling the afternoon shift, finishing the paperwork. She was supposed to have a free day, but Mike called and asked her for help. A smile crept upon his lips.

He had to work. And he needed information regarding the situation in Eastern Europe. A frown appeared on his forehead. He didn't want to contact her. But he knew she had been residing in Bulgaria for the couple of months preceding her return to London.

He shook his head. The woman. _The woman_.

Irene Adler entered his life like a hurricane and shook the very foundations of his principles. He now knew he had never been in love with her, now when he finally knew what true love felt like, but she had awoken something in him he alone could not explain. She was intelligent, her every move calculated and elaborated to the last detail. The game they played was a game of intellectual equals. But she had made a mistake Sherlock had never allowed himself to make. She had let her heart rule her head. Love for her truly was a chemical defect, sentiment found on the losing side, making her lose the game she alone had set rules to. But she had made it that way. She fell in love with him, but never truly loved him.

Sherlock had feared the love he felt for Molly would make him weak and exposed. But he came to realization that love was making him stronger, his mind sharper and his will fiercer. It was impossible for him to be on the losing side because of his love for Molly. She mattered to him more than his own life ever had.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

He decided to wait before contacting the Adler woman. She owed him a favour, a big favour, but the last time he had trusted her, she had been connected to Moriarty. She did not deserve his trust. He would wait.

The Homeless Network was silently and wordlessly gathering information on her and other people of interest throughout the city. Miloš Jovanović of London, according to Mycroft, had no connection whatsoever to the Serbian division of Moriarty's criminal network, but Sherlock had to know if he made a sudden, unexplainable move. Aleksandar Živojinović, a rich London businessman with flawless background, was suddenly making untraceable payments; Sherlock had to know who exactly was his wife's new housemaid. Matthew Harris, a low-rang government official, had a friend in Bulgaria that suddenly paid him a visit and stayed in his guest-room; Sherlock had to know if he would contact Matthew's cocaine dealer or someone else when in need. The list went on and on. Sherlock was spreading his web all across London. England, for that matter.

But there was something he was missing. There was always something. Henry Colton was not connected to this. He could not have been. It seems Moriarty simply killed him to send Sherlock a message. A message where to look. And Sherlock was looking, but could not entirely grasp the reality before him.

He was sure of one thing. There would be another bombing. Soon. While the clock seemed to be ticking louder and louder in his mind, he could not for the life of him figure out what exactly was the connection between the dead landlord and the blasted game. A dead accountant who had been working with Moriarty on the side was not in contact with anyone suspicious. Moriarty isolated him from other criminal activities except for money transfers. The poor bastard probably knew nothing of the origin of money he was transferring anyway.

Another bombing would probably give him another clue, thus allowing him to connect the blank parts of the web. Another bombing might even give him a clue that would bring him into advantage. Another bombing, at that point, would be great. But innocent people would die and even if Sherlock were a sociopath, he felt somewhere within that it would not be a fair exchange. Human life mattered. For that reason Sherlock was hunting criminals, not being one of them.

He sighed and turned to his chair. An orange feline was residing there, purring contently. Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he liked the cat. They grew pretty close while he was staying at Molly's after the fall. The cat was intelligent, but too proud and selfish for its own good. Since Molly's relocation to 221B, the cat had preferred Mrs Hudson's apartment, probably because the landlady started spoiling him with copious amounts of tuna the moment they entered the flat. But that morning, Toby decided it was time to climb upstairs and overtake the throne from Sherlock. He approached the chair and petted the orange head, getting a loud purr in return. The corner of his lips twitched upwards.

A few moments later his mobile rang somewhere behind the sofa. He extricated it and brought the broken screen closer to his ear.

"Hello, Sherlock." Molly's voice immediately brought a smile to his lips. "Could you come over? I umm. I think you should see this..."

"What is it, Molly?"

"It's umm... It's... I don't know, just come over... Just come over."

"I'm on my way." Grabbing his coat, he was in the cab in less than a minute. When he arrived to St. Bart's morgue, Molly and Mike Stamford were leaning against an empty slab, nervously waiting for him.

"Sherlock." Molly started. "There's something you have to see." She exchanged a glance with Mike and gestured towards the wall behind Sherlock. He turned around, somehow knowing already what he was about to see. Three big letters painted in red.

I O U

"It wasn't here this morning. We just returned from our lunch break and here it was..." Mike said silently.

His face was expressionless, unreadable. He took out his broken mobile and called John. He would deal with Mycroft later. Lestrade was there in the matter of minutes and they were already inspecting the surveillance tape when John arrived. Lestrade explained him the situation under breath. A few minutes later, they were watching a man wearing a black hoodie approaching the morgue. The time was 1:54PM. His pace was not quickened, he calmly waltzed to the door and briefly turned around. A familiar happy grin followed by a wink froze them in their places. It was Moriarty himself. He entered Bart's in the middle of the day. Without as much as a need to quicken his pace.

Sherlock turned around and made a few steps away from them. He could not bring himself to look at Molly. What could have happened? Hadn't she already been attacked in that same room? And now what – Moriarty could come in and vanish without a trace, without as much as being seen? She gave him everything, and he could not even protect her from harm in return. What the hell was he supposed to do? Mycroft's incompetent men could not prevent Moriarty himself from entering the morgue. How was he supposed to work and stop Moriarty if his friends were constantly in danger? He had promised himself he would not let anything happen to them._ To her_.

A small hand on his upper arm caused him to turn around and face them. Molly was close to him, watching him with a great deal of worry in her eyes. He could not stand her gaze, but before he was able to act, she pulled him in a hug. Without a thought, he found himself wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. Her body heat had a calming effect on his mind.

"I know what you're thinking." Her silent voice tickled the skin of his neck. "And I want you to stop."

He sighed and slowly pulled back. It was amazing, it was absolutely breathtaking how she was able to read him like an open book. "I can't, Molly." He softly traced her cheekbone with his knuckles.

John, Lestrade and Mike were taken aback by the display of emotions going on in front of them, but aside from the wide-eyed face expressions, no one uttered a single word. The Detective Inspector cleared his throat and addressed Sherlock. "It doesn't take a consulting detective to figure out that this has something to do with Moriarty."

"Yes." Sherlock answered slowly. "He's showing me that he can breach the walls I built, without a problem." He sighed and turned around. "I cannot protect you. I don't know how."

Everybody remained quiet. It was not a usual sight, seeing the most brilliant man anyone of them had ever encountered being so obviously vulnerable. But they could not give him any kind of consolation. The thing was that Moriarty was mocking Sherlock and all of them. They could not hide from him.

He turned around and met Molly's eyes. He managed a small smile towards her. "Go home. Paperwork can wait." And he walked through the door. John squeezed her shoulder before following Sherlock and Lestrade. She was left there with Mike.

"Molly... What is this all about?"

"I don't know, Mike. I don't know..."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was silent. But it was a different kind of silence. John was used to being ignored for hours while he was on a case. He would wander through his Mind Palace and close the door shut for the rest of the world. But now, Sherlock was sitting in a cab, a clenched fist under his chin. But he was not in the Mind Palace, he was just wordlessly looking through the car's window. His face was unreadable, but John could feel the tension in the air around him.<p>

They were returning to Baker Street. There was nothing, not a single clue, at least not visible to John. Sherlock might have found something, but for now he was not sharing his thoughts. But by the looks of it, he was lost.

John sympathized with his friend because he knew what was going through his mind. The game between Sherlock and Moriarty had always been a game of outsmarting, but on a whole new level. They were equals on some intellectual level. But this... this was a whole new game.

Sherlock was silent because there was not much to say. The "crime scene" was clean, nobody neither saw nor heard anything. He had realized they would not find much to begin with even before they started looking. That was Moriarty's way of telling him that he knew what Sherlock had been doing. That he knew Sherlock was slightly desperate. Because desperate he was.

A sickening sweet voice filled his head. He could hear Moriarty talking in his mind.

_I will burn the heart out of you. _

Sherlock's own voice replied. _And you are going to do it slowly while I'm watching helplessly. _

He hadn't realized they were at Baker Street until John squeezed his shoulder. They wordlessly got out of the cab and into the building. Molly was curled up in Sherlock's chair with a sleeping orange feline in her lap. She had her usual cheery smile on her lips, but Sherlock could feel the worry emitting out of her. A pang of guilt slowly started spreading through his chest like physical pain.

"Sherlock?"

John took his seat opposing her and Sherlock walked towards the window. He was standing there wordlessly, trying to cope with a wide array of emotion boiling up inside of him. John caught her glance and tried to reassure her with a smile, because he suspected what was going on in his friend's mind. Sherlock abruptly turned around wearing his usual mask of indifference. John asked Molly how her afternoon had passed.

"Mike and I have finished the paperwork before heading home. There was nothing much to say in conclusion about the thirteen bodies. They were pretty much bashed up so..."

"Molly." Sherlock sharp voice stopped her. "You're babbling."

His words cut her like a blade. Her cheeks reddened. She hadn't encountered the good old Sherlock Holmes for a while, she forgot how cold and cutting he could be. Particularly in situations like these, where she was closely related to the case, but he wouldn't take her into consideration at all. Like after the first encounter with Jim at the pool. She was hurt deeply, but decided not to show it, mostly because she knew that he didn't mean it. He showed her, he told her that he loved her, she didn't need any harder evidence of his feelings towards her. But he was under pressure.

She rose from his chair with Toby in her arms. "I'm sorry." She walked towards the kitchen and started the kettle before retiring to Sherlock's bedroom.

When the man in question met his best friend's gaze, the look on John Watson's face could not be described as anything other than murderous.

"You bloody cock." He uttered under breath. "Can't you see she's worried about you?"

Sherlock sighed and slumped onto his chair. He brought the tips of his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes.

"Don't you think I know that, John?"

John remained silent. He had an arsenal of curses to be used on Sherlock Holmes when behaving like a bloody git, but the exhaustion and hopelessness in his friend's voice silenced him. Sherlock took a deep breath before speaking again.

"You think I don't take her situation into consideration? You think I do not worry about her safety constantly? Moriarty has broken into Bart's twice and into her flat since his official return, you think I don't know how this could have ended?"

He sounded like he was on the verge of tears, but John knew he would not show it.

Warmth was spreading from the fireplace, soft light illuminating their faces. John eyed his friend. Deep black circles under his eyes, pale skin, wild curls...

"I love her, you know." Sherlock whispered. His gaze was fixed upon the crackling flames.

John kept his eyes fixed on his tired face. "I know, mate. I know." He sighed and managed a small smile towards him.

They stayed in their seats, unmoving and wordless, like two statues. One was doing god knows what in his unbelievable mind and the other was silently re-examining his relationship with the man opposing him, a friendship that had changed him entirely and irrevocably. But John liked to think that he had also had an influence on Sherlock, making him lower the walls around his heart and let in the people that obviously cared about him. That loved him. If someone had told him years ago that Sherlock Holmes would fall in love, John would have laughed for hours. But there they were.

John chuckled, bringing back Sherlock's attention. A frown appeared between the detective's eyebrows because he was obviously not capable of understanding how one could laugh in a situation like this.

"Oh, stop it." John managed to say in between chuckles. "I'm just happy for you, you bloody git."

Sherlock chuckled too, but it was obvious he had something else to say on the matter. For the moment, he decided to let it pass.

Molly appeared in the kitchen just when the kettle boiled. She fixed them both a cup of tea and brought it on a tray alongside some homemade biscuits to the fireplace. She smiled at John and managed a small smile in Sherlock's direction before turning around to leave, but a hand gripped her wrist and pulled her back to Sherlock's lap. She was somewhat taken aback when he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his forehead against her hair.

"I'm sorry, Molly. Forgive me." He whispered, and Molly could not help but laugh at John's wide grin. Sherlock raised his head, a bit alarmed, but chuckled as well. "John, you look like a proud father."

"Ha-ha, Sherlock. I feel like one." He winked. "After all, Mary and I agreed to keep you until the baby comes."

"And then I suppose you'll just abandon me." Sherlock pouted.

"Don't worry, you'll always be our special little baby, Sherlock. I believe the real baby will be more mature than you as soon as she turns two."

"Maybe even earlier." Molly chuckled while kissing Sherlock's forehead.

"Splendid. I see you have chosen your side in this, Molly Hooper." The pout was back, but his friends weren't sure if it was real or not.

"You bet." She smiled.

Sherlock sighed and pulled her closer. Somehow it did not feel out of place, this absurd level of domesticity with John and Moll, teatray and biscuits near the fireplace.

John's mobile vibrated. "Oh, Mary." His face lightened up immediately. "No. We're at Baker Street." There were a few seconds of silence on his part. "Oh. Sure. I'll ask them. Actually, scratch that, I'll drag them if I need to." He smiled at them.

"Get up, you two. Mary's made dinner. She's expecting us."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and started opening his mouth, but Molly cut him off. "Yes, we know, you can't eat while you're on a case, digestion slows you down, but you're still going with us. And you're going to eat something, Sherlock, otherwise you'll pass out in a few hours."

He wordlessly obliged with a hint of a suppressed smile on his lips.

Half an hour later, they were at the Watsons' house, feasting on delicious homemade pasta. After dinner, a huge chocolate cake followed.

"Oh, Mary! I see you are getting bored!" Molly smiled. Mary smiled back. "Yes. Little Miss Watson and myself have nothing smarter to do. Cooking relaxes me a lot."

"We can see. John has put on four pounds since Christmas." Sherlock remarked.

"Three and a half, Sherlock." John's slightly irritated voice countered him immediately, causing Mary and Molly to laugh.

The Watsons were a bit surprised seeing Sherlock eating while on a case, but they knew better than to voice it. Mary was silently observing Sherlock all evening, making her own deductions about their friend. She exchanged a glance with John, both of them wordlessly making a deal not to mention a thing about the case.

Two hours later, Molly and Sherlock were on their way to Baker Street and the Watsons were having an intense conversation in their own home.

"I'm telling you, John. This is not going to end up well." Mary was drinking her apple juice. John was finishing his glass of wine, nodding towards his wife.

"Yeah, Mary. I know. Something's up with him. I think he's beating himself up because he can't keep a close eye on all of us. I mean, look at it. Moriarty came to the bloody morgue. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to look at Molly half of the day. It seems like the fucking bastard's playing with Sherlock's feelings towards her."

"He loves her, John." John smiled at his wife. "I know. He told her." He stated proudly. Mary squeaked and brought her hands to her mouth.

"So this is it? Are they together now?"

"Didn't ask. He didn't tell. But years of living with Sherlock Holmes have left a trace of me, I'll tell you that!" He raised his chin up. "They slept together."

Mary smiled widely and threw a cushion at him. "Oh, shut it!" She started laughing.

John raised his chin even higher, got up from his chair and started pacing with his hands on his back. "All the signs are there Mary, you just see but do not observe. They have slept together and they are in love, presumably starting a romantic relationship. A typical human error because sentiment is a chemical weakness found on the losing side. Furthermore, I deduce that Mr Holmes, judging by a wrinkled state of his shirt, has not been sleeping for at least three days and it is our duty, Mrs Watson", he eyed her dramatically, "to find out if he is suffering from a Windy-Mind-Palace syndrome or if Dr Hooper has been keeping him busy."

At that point, Mary was laughing so hard that her juice spilled all over the carpet. John's mobile buzzed. He had an incoming text from Sherlock Holmes.

_Stop it.-SH _

"That bloody man is unbelievable." John chuckled while Mary was laughing so loud that Mycroft's agents outside started wondering what the hell was going on in the Watsons' house.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and Molly were lying in his bed (their bed?). He was enjoying the peace and silence she brought to his mind. Organizing his thoughts seemed easier while he was with her. The coldness and emptiness of his Mind Palace were replaced by warmth and comfort which seemed to be spreading from her physical form pressed against his body. She was sleeping, tucked into the safety of his arms, and he felt she was safe too. <em>What have I ever done to deserve you<em>...

He couldn't help letting the guilt and regret engulf his entire being. He was a selfish sociopath. It would be the best for her if he just walked away, never to return. To erase himself from her life entirely. But it would most definitely break her heart, shatter it. He could finally understand what it meant, to have your whole heart ripped out of your chest. To lose someone that matters the most. That was exactly what he was trying to prevent from happening.

He kept hearing those words in his mind. _I will burn the heart out of you_.

While closing his eyes and submitting to the realms of subconsciousness, his last wish was to prevent that. _You can do whatever you want to me. You can burn the rest of me, Moriarty, but do not touch my heart. Do not touch her..._

His eyes snapped open. A quick glance through the window told him nothing of the time due to the fresh piles of snow that were making everything shine like silver. He carefully extracted Molly from his arms and tiptoed to the living-room. He stopped in his track near the kitchen table.

_Of course..._

This all was a distraction.

_Stupid. Stupid. FUCKING STUPID! _Oh, John would be proud of the vast arsenal of curses Sherlock was currently uttering under breath.

_How could I be so bloody stupid?_

Of course it was a distraction. Moriarty played him. Mocked him. _Bloody fucked around with me._

He frantically started searching for his phone when it suddenly buzzed from under the table (probably ending there during the equally frantic disrobing occurring there the night before).

Wiggins was calling him, telling him something he had already suspected. Živojinović's secretary made a contact with Jovanović. The exchange of an envelope went unnoticed by the rest of the world around them, but not by the Homeless Network. It was strangely satisfying and saddening to Sherlock how the homeless could wander through the streets unnoticed. Amongst them were people whose minds were sharper than most of the politicians'.

_So this is it..._

Sherlock could work with that. Supposedly clean English gentlemen of Serbian origin were not that clean after all. And Sherlock had an idea what exactly was their part in the game.

He dialled his brother's number. "Mycroft. I will need detailed intelligence files on these two men in an hour."

An hour later, Sherlock was looking at the wall above the sofa and smiling. Actually smiling. Miloš Jovanović and Aleksandar Živojinović were clean, absolutely clean. No criminal records, no charges, nothing, not a single misplaced penny. But when one would look further, one would find that their lives were a bit too well orchestrated. Too good to be true, wasn't that the common expression? So, when Sherlock brought that to his brother's attention, the British Government soon called back with not such of an unexpected piece of information. Miloš Jovanović and Aleksandar Živojinović did not, in fact, exist. Furthermore, supposed Mr Jovanović was born in London in 1977 under the name Harry Colton. A tragic accident at the age of twenty took his life. A tragic train accident in Serbia.

_Of course..._

Mr Colton had been in fact connected, but not in a way Sherlock originally suspected. Mr Colton the Younger had a connection to the still alive Serbian division of Moriarty's network. The old man knew his son was alive all along and had been transferring money into his accounts. Moriarty had made him a lieutenant, an unsuspecting agent operating silently in the heart of London. And what was his occupation of choice? Smuggling weapons through the Serbian division, of course. There was even more. Zivojinovic had vanished from the United Kingdom. Sherlock could easily deduce his whereabouts. Serbia. Moriarty's criminal network. Only the Bulgarian bloke remained low, but that was possibly due to the heavy dosage of drugs in his system. Živojjinovič and Jovanović were somehow managing the increased illegal sale of weapons in Eastern Europe from the heart of London. But Živojinović being on a trip to Serbia meant there was something bigger going on. An unusual shipment of weapons, probably meant for the UK. Moriarty was arming his troops. But there were no more doubts, Sherlock knew exactly what path had the explosive used in Baker Street travelled.

He dialled the DI's number. "Lestrade. Miloš Jovanović, find him and arrest him. He's Moriarty's weapon supplier."

The DI obliged without a word, knowing that Sherlock had the last word in everything considering Moriarty. Warrants were not to be worried about, Mycroft Holmes assured him of that. The British Government would make sure they could make sudden moves without legal consequences.

The police forces arrived to Mr Colton's premises. His huge house in the middle of North Kensington stood out from its surroundings. What they did not expect was the dead body of Harry Colton, aka Miloš Jovanović, hanged in the middle of his own living room. What they expected even less were the red painted words on the wall behind him.

GOT THE CLUE, DIDN'T YOU?

I O U

And what they certainly did not expect was a loud beep followed by a shattering explosion.

_AN: Thank you again for the amazing reviews! It is a bit hard, I suppose, to write about Sherlock being in love. I'm constantly trying to keep the characterization as realistic as possible, but some changes were necessary due to the progress of the story. Hope you like it :)_


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